The Empty Throne (The Warrior Chronicles, Book 8) (30 page)

‘And the sword?’ I asked.

‘And Rognvald is a prisoner,’ Anwyn said, apparently ignoring my question. ‘It was his boats that returned to the beach. The rest,’ he stared out to sea where the Norse fleet was disappearing behind a headland, ‘are commanded by Sigtryggr Ivarson.’ He said the name as though it tasted sour on his tongue. ‘He’s the more dangerous of Ivar’s sons. Young, ambitious and able.’

‘And looking for land,’ I managed to say as another stab of pain lanced into me.

‘But not here, thank God,’ Anwyn said. ‘And Rognvald agreed to join his search.’

What choice had Rognvald had, I wondered. His settlement on the edge of Wales had hardly thrived. It had clung to its rocky shore for six years, but Rognvald had failed to attract more followers or conquer more land, and Sigtryggr had evidently persuaded Rognvald to join his larger forces. That agreement must have been reached a week or so before, when Sigtryggr’s fleet had first reached Wales, and Rognvald, knowing he would be abandoning his settlement, had tried to enrich himself at Saint Dewi’s expense before he left.

Now Rognvald and his surviving men would die, not because they had attacked the saint’s shrine, but because of what they had done to the two Welsh missionaries and their handful of converts. It was that cruelty that had provoked Welsh anger. ‘It is the work of the devil,’ Anwyn said in rage, ‘Satan’s doing!’ He stared at me with disdain, ‘Pagan atrocity!’ With that he turned back towards the settlement and we followed. The pain was still bad, but it hurt no more to hobble slowly than to be sitting and so I limped behind Anwyn along the narrow path. Ahead of us the settlement still burned furiously, though much of the western side had yet to catch fire, and it was in that part of the village that the Norsemen had killed the Christians.

We went through a gateway that pierced the palisade, and Eadith, who was walking beside me, gasped, then turned away.

‘Jesus,’ Finan murmured and crossed himself.

‘You see what they do?’ Father Anwyn shouted at me. ‘They will burn in the everlasting fires of hell. They will suffer the torments of the damned. They will be cursed for all time.’

Hywel’s warriors were arriving now, their elation turning to rage because the two missionaries and their handful of converts had been slaughtered like animals, though not before they had been tortured. All nine bodies were naked, though all were so lacerated and sliced that blood and guts disguised their nudity. The women’s heads had been shaved, a mark of shame, and their breasts had been cut off. The two priests had been gelded. All nine had been eviscerated, blinded, and had their tongues sliced out. They had been tied to posts, and I shuddered to think how long it had taken for death to release them from their pain.

‘Why?’ Anwyn demanded of me. He knew I was a pagan, just as he must have known I had no answer for him.

‘Spite,’ Finan answered for me, ‘just spite.’

‘Pagan evil,’ Anwyn retorted angrily. ‘You see the devil at work! This is Satan’s doing!’

Rognvald had attacked Tyddewi and found it empty. He had found rich plunder, but not nearly as much as he expected and there had been no young women and children to capture and enslave. He must have decided that the missionaries had betrayed him and so he had avenged himself. Now he would die.

There would be no mercy. Every prisoner would die, and Hywel made them look at the nine dead Christians so they knew why they were dying. And the Norsemen were lucky. Despite the anger of the Welsh, they died quickly, usually from a sword cut to the neck. The settlement stank of smoke and blood, so much blood. Some of the prisoners, very few, begged for their lives, but most went to their execution with resignation. None was allowed to hold a sword, and that was a punishment in itself. Rognvald was made to watch. He was a big man, big-bellied, big-bearded, with hard eyes in a lined face that was decorated with inked designs. An eagle spread its wings on one cheek, a serpent writhed across his forehead, while a raven flew on the other cheek. His hair was turning grey, but it was oiled and combed. He watched his men die and his face showed nothing, but he must have known that his death would be the last, and would not be swift.

I limped along the line of men shuffling towards their end. A boy caught my eye. I say ‘boy’, but I suppose he was sixteen or seventeen. He had fair hair, blue eyes, and a long face that betrayed the struggle in his head. He knew he was about to die and he wanted to cry, but he also wanted to show bravery, and he was trying so hard. ‘What’s your name?’ I asked him.

‘Berg,’ he said.

‘Berg what?’

‘Berg Skallagrimmrson, lord.’

‘You served Rognvald?’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘Come here,’ I beckoned him to me. One of the Welsh guards tried to stop him leaving the line of captives, but Finan growled and the man stepped back. ‘Tell me,’ I said to Berg, speaking Danish and speaking very slowly so he would understand me, ‘did you help kill the Christians?’

‘No, lord!’

‘If you lie to me,’ I said, ‘I’ll find out. I’ll ask your comrades.’

‘I did not, lord. I swear it.’

I believed him. He was shaking with fear, gazing at me with an extraordinary intensity as if he sensed that I was his salvation. ‘When you raided the monastery,’ I asked him, ‘did they find a sword?’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘Tell me about it.’

‘It was in a tomb, lord.’

‘You saw it?’

‘It has a white hilt, lord. I saw it.’

‘And what happened to it?’

‘Rognvald took it, lord.’

‘Wait,’ I said and walked back into the settlement where the bodies were being hauled to one side, to where the soil was stained black and stank of blood, where the smoke of burning houses swirled in the freshening breeze. I went to Anwyn. ‘I ask a favour,’ I said to him.

The priest was watching the Norsemen die. He was watching as they were forced to their knees and made to stare at the nine corpses still tied to the poles. Watching as the swords or axes touched their necks, watching as they flinched when the blades were taken away and they knew the killing blow was imminent. Watching as the heads were severed and the blood spurted and the bodies twitched. ‘Tell me,’ he said coldly, still watching.

‘Spare me one life,’ I pleaded.

Anwyn glanced along the line of men and saw Berg standing beside Finan. ‘You want us to spare that lad?’

‘That’s the favour I ask.’

‘Why?’

‘He reminds me of my son,’ I said, and that was true, though it was not why I had pleaded, ‘and he took no part in this slaughter.’ I nodded towards the tortured Christians.

‘He says,’ Anwyn remarked sourly.

‘He says,’ I said, ‘and I believe him.’

Anwyn stared at me for a few heartbeats, then grimaced as though the favour I asked was too extravagant. Still, he went to the king and I saw them speak. Hywel glanced at me from his saddle, then at the boy. He frowned and I supposed he was going to refuse my request. And why had I made it? At the time I was not sure. I liked the look of the boy because there was an honesty in Berg’s face and he did resemble Uhtred, but that was hardly reason enough. Years before I had spared the life of a young man called Haesten and he had seemed open and truthful too, yet he had turned out to be a cunning and deceitful enemy. I was not sure why I wanted Berg’s life, though now, so many years later, I know it was fate.

King Hywel beckoned me. I stood by his stirrup and bowed my head respectfully. ‘I am minded,’ he said, ‘to grant your request because of your assistance on the beach, but there is one condition.’

‘Lord?’ I asked, looking up at him.

‘That you promise to make the boy a Christian.’

I shrugged. ‘I can’t force him to believe in your god,’ I said, ‘but I promise that I’ll have him taught by a good priest and do nothing to stop his conversion.’

The king considered that promise for a moment, then nodded. ‘He’s yours.’

And thus Berg Skallagrimmrson entered my service.

Fate is inexorable. I was not to know it, but I had just made Alfred’s dream of Englaland come true.

‘Come with me,’ I told Berg, and walked him back to the beach. Finan, my son, Eadith, and the others all came with me.

Wyrd bið ful
ā
ræd.

I did not see Rognvald die, though I heard him. It was not quick. He was a warrior, determined to die defiantly, but before the Welsh had finished he was screaming like a child. The gulls screamed too, the sound forlorn, and over it came the cries of a man wishing he were dead.

Sigtryggr’s fleet was gone. The burning ships had sunk, leaving only two fading clouds of smoke being blown westwards by the wind. I heard the Welsh singing a dirge and guessed they were burying their dead; the nine martyrs and the half-dozen warriors who had died in the fighting on the beach. The Norse dead were still there, their bodies stranded at the low tide, while, higher up the beach, where a rill of driftwood and weed marked the limit of the last flood tide, there was a heap of clothing, helmets, swords, shields, axes, and spears. A cloak had been spread on the stones and was piled with coins and hacksilver taken from the prisoners and from the dead, while near it, and guarded by two young men, was the great golden chest that had encased Saint Dewi’s body, and the huge silver crucifix that had stood on the altar. ‘Find your helmet and sword,’ I told Berg.

He looked at me with disbelief. ‘I can carry a sword?’

‘Of course,’ I said, ‘you’re my man now. You’ll swear loyalty to me and if I die, to my son.’

‘Yes, lord.’

And while Berg hunted for his own sword I looked through the heaped weapons, and there she was. As simple as could be. The ivory hilt of Ice-Spite was unmistakable. I bent down, wincing from the sudden pain, and pulled the blade free. I shivered, though it was a warm day.

I drew her from the scabbard. I was accustomed to the weight of Serpent-Breath, but this sword was much lighter. Cnut had always claimed that the blade had been forged in a sorcerer’s fire that burned colder than ice in the frost caverns of Hel. He said she was a sword of the gods, but all I knew was that she was the sword that had pierced me, and that Bishop Asser had charmed with Christian sorcery to torment me. The sunlight reflected silver from the blade, which had no patterns, indeed no decoration except for one word at the base of the hilt:

I showed it to Finan, who made the sign of the cross. ‘It’s one of his swords,’ he said in a hushed tone. My son came to look, and drew Raven-Beak, and there was the same word inscribed on the plain blade. ‘It’s a magic sword, sure enough,’ Finan said. ‘Christ, but you were lucky to survive it!’

I turned the Vlfberht blade, seeing the light reflect from the smooth steel. She was beautiful, a tool for killing, her only extravagance the ivory hand grips of her hilt. For a moment I thought of replacing Serpent-Breath with this sleek killer, but I rejected the notion. Serpent-Breath had served me well, and to discard her would be to tempt the gods, yet I was tempted. I stroked Ice-Spite’s edge, feeling the nicks made in the fight, then I touched the point, and it was needle sharp.

‘Is that the sword?’ Eadith asked me.

‘Yes.’

‘Give it to me,’ she said.

‘Why?’

She looked at me with cold eyes as if she suddenly disliked me. ‘The sword will cure you, lord.’

‘You know that?’

‘Why did we come here?’ she demanded. I said nothing, and she held out her hand. ‘Give me the sword,’ she insisted, and when I still hesitated, ‘I know what to do, lord.’

‘What?’ I asked. ‘What do you do?’

‘I cure you.’

I looked down at Ice-Spite. I had wanted her so badly, I had travelled to the end of Britain to find her, yet I had no idea how the possession of her would help me. I had thought that the sword must be laid against the wound, but that was just imagination. I did not know what to do, and I was in pain, and I was tired of the pain, tired of feeling weak, tired of death’s close company, and so I reversed the blade and held the hilt to Eadith.

She half smiled. My men were watching us. Berg had stopped looking for his own sword and was gazing at us, wondering what strange things happened at the sea’s blood-stained edge. ‘Lean against the ship,’ Eadith ordered me and I obeyed her. I stood with my back against the bows of Rognvald’s ship and leaned on the timbers. ‘Now show me the wound, lord,’ Eadith said.

I unclasped my belt and lifted my tunic. My son grimaced when he saw the wound that was again crusted with bloody pus. I could smell it, despite the smoke and the sea and the slaughter and the freshening wind.

Eadith closed her eyes. ‘This sword almost killed you,’ she said in a slow, sing-song voice, ‘and now this blade will heal you.’

And she opened her eyes, and her face was suddenly a grimace of hate, and before Finan or any of my men could stop her, she stabbed me.

The pain was like lightning; sudden, bright, overwhelming, and jagged. I gasped, staggered against the ship’s bows, and saw Finan moving to snatch at Eadith’s arm, but she had already pulled the sword back. Now she was staring at my wound with a look of horror.