The Last Kingdom (29 page)

“But you should know one thing, Uhtred.” His voice was stern. “If any man commands my troops, that man must know how to read and write.”

I almost laughed at that. “So he can read the Psalms, lord?” I asked sarcastically.

“So he can read my orders,” Alfred said coldly, “and send me news.”

“Yes, lord,” I said again.

They had lit beacons in Hamtun’s waters so we could find our way home, and the night wind stirred the liquid reflections of moon and stars as we slid to our anchorage. There were lights ashore, and fires, and ale, and food and laughter, and best of all the promise of meeting Ragnar the next day.

Ragnar took a huge risk, of course, in going back to Heilincigae, though perhaps he reckoned, truthfully as it turned out, that our ships would need a day to recover from the fight. There were injured men to tend, weapons to sharpen, and so none of our fleet put to sea that day.

Brida and I rode horses to Hamanfunta, a village that lived off trapping eels, fishing, and making salt, and a sliver of a coin found stabling for our horses and a fisherman willing to take us out to Heilincigae where no one now lived, for the Danes had slaughtered them all. The fisherman would not wait for us, too frightened of the coming night and the ghosts that would be moaning and screeching on the island, but he promised to return in the morning.

Brida, Nihtgenga, and I wandered that low place, going past the previous day’s Danish dead who had already been pecked ragged by the gulls, past burned-out huts where folk had made a poor living from the sea and the marsh before the Vikings came and then, as the sun sank, we carried charred timbers to the shore and I used flint and steel to make a fire. The flames flared up in the dusk and Brida touched my arm to show me
Wind-Viper,
dark against the darkening sky, coming through the sea lake’s entrance. The last of the daylight touched the sea red and caught the gilding on
Wind-Viper
’s beast head.

I watched her, thinking of all the fear that such a sight brought on England. Wherever there was a creek, a harbor, or a river mouth, men feared to see the Danish ships. They feared those beasts at the prow, feared the men behind the beasts, and prayed to be spared the Northmen’s fury. I loved the sight. Loved
Wind-Viper.
Her oars rose and fell, I could hear the shafts creaking in their leather-lined holes, and I could see mailed men at her prow, and then the bows scrunched on the sand and the long oars went still.

Ragnar put the ladder against the prow. All Danish ships have a short ladder to let them climb down to a beach, and he came down the rungs slowly and alone. He was in full mail coat, helmeted, with a sword at his side, and once ashore he paced to the small flames of our fire like a warrior come for vengeance. He stopped a spear’s length away and then stared at me through the black eyeholes of his helmet. “Did you kill my father?” he asked harshly.

“On my life,” I said, “on Thor,” I pulled out the hammer amulet and clutched it, “on my soul,” I went on, “I did not.”

He pulled off his helmet, stepped forward, and we embraced. “I knew you did not,” he said.

“Kjartan did it,” I said, “and we watched him.” We told him the whole story, how we had been in the high woods watching the charcoal cool, and how we had been cut off from the hall, and how it had been fired, and how the folk had been slaughtered.

“If I could have killed one of them,” I said, “I would, and I would have died doing it, but Ravn always said there should be at least one survivor to tell the tale.”

“What did Kjartan say?” Brida asked.

Ragnar was sitting now, and two of his men had brought bread and dried herrings and cheese and ale. “Kjartan said,” Ragnar spoke softly, “that the English rose against the hall, encouraged by Uhtred, and that he revenged himself on the killers.”

“And you believed him?” I asked.

“No,” he admitted. “Too many men said he did it, but he is Earl Kjartan now. He leads three times more men than I do.”

“And Thyra?” I asked. “What does she say?”

“Thyra?” He stared at me, puzzled.

“Thyra lived,” I told him. “She was taken away by Sven.”

He just stared at me. He had not known that his sister lived and I saw the anger come on his face, and then he raised his eyes to the stars and he howled like a wolf.

“It is true,” Brida said softly. “Your sister lived.”

Ragnar drew his sword and laid it on the sand and touched the blade with his right hand. “If it is the last thing I do,” he swore, “I shall kill Kjartan, kill his son, and all his followers. All of them!”

“I would help,” I said. He looked at me through the flames. “I loved your father,” I said, “and he treated me like a son.”

“I will welcome your help, Uhtred,” Ragnar said formally. He wiped the sand from the blade and slid it back into its fleece-lined scabbard. “You will sail with us now?”

I was tempted. I was even surprised at how strongly I was tempted. I wanted to go with Ragnar, I wanted the life I had lived with his father. But fate rules us. I was sworn to Alfred for a few more weeks, and I had fought alongside Leofric for all these months, and fighting next to a man in the shield wall makes a bond as tight as love. “I cannot come,” I said, and wished I could have said the opposite.

“I can,” Brida said, and somehow I was not surprised by that. She had not liked being left ashore in Hamtun as we sailed to fight. She felt trammeled and useless, unwanted, and I think she yearned after the Danish ways. She hated Wessex. She hated its priests, hated their disapproval, and hated their denial of all that was joy.

“You are a witness of my father’s death,” Ragnar said to her, still formal.

“I am.”

“Then I would welcome you,” he said, and looked at me again.

I shook my head. “I am sworn to Alfred for the moment. By winter I shall be free of the oath.”

“Then come to us in the winter,” Ragnar said, “and we shall go to Dunholm.”

“Dunholm?”

“It is Kjartan’s fortress now. Ricsig lets him live there.”

I thought of Dunholm’s stronghold on its soaring crag, wrapped by its river, protected by its sheer rock and its high walls and strong garrison. “What if Kjartan marches on Wessex?” I asked.

Ragnar shook his head. “He will not, because he does not go where I go, so I must go to him.”

“He fears you then?”

Ragnar smiled, and if Kjartan had seen that smile he would have shivered. “He fears me,” Ragnar said. “I hear he sent men to kill me in Ireland, but their boat was driven ashore and the skraelings killed the crew. So he lives in fear. He denies my father’s death, but he still fears me.”

“There is one last thing,” I said, and nodded at Brida who brought out the leather bag with its gold, jet, and silver. “It was your father’s,” I said, “and Kjartan never found it, and we did, and we have spent some of it, but what remains is yours.” I pushed the bag toward him and made myself instantly poor.

Ragnar pushed it back without a thought, making me rich again. “My father loved you, too,” he said, “and I am wealthy enough.”

We ate, we drank, we slept, and in the dawn, when a light mist shimmered over the reed beds, the
Wind-Viper
went. The last thing Ragnar said to me was a question. “Thyra lives?”

“She survived,” I said, “so I think she must still live.”

We embraced, he went, and I was alone.

I wept for Brida. I felt hurt. I was too young to know how to take abandonment. During the night I had tried to persuade her to stay, but she had a will as strong as Ealdwulf’s iron, and she had gone with Ragnar into the dawn mist and left me weeping. I hated the three spinners at that moment, for they wove cruel jests into their vulnerable threads, and then the fisherman came to fetch me and I went back home.

Autumn gales tore at the coast and Alfred’s fleet was laid up for the winter, dragged ashore by horses and oxen, and Leofric and I rode to Wintanceaster, only to discover that Alfred was at his estate at Cippanhamm. We were permitted into the Wintanceaster palace by the doorkeeper, who either recognized me or was terrified of Leofric, and we slept there, but the place was still haunted by monks, despite Alfred’s absence, and so we spent the day in a nearby tavern. “So what will you do, earsling?” Leofric asked me. “Renew your oath to Alfred?”

“Don’t know.”

“Don’t know,” he repeated sarcastically. “Lost your decision with your girl?”

“I could go back to the Danes,” I said.

“That would give me a chance to kill you,” he said happily.

“Or stay with Alfred.”

“Why not do that?”

“Because I don’t like him,” I said.

“You don’t have to like him. He’s your king.”

“He’s not my king,” I said. “I’m a Northumbrian.”

“So you are, earsling, a Northumbrian ealdorman, eh?”

I nodded, demanded more ale, tore a piece of bread in two, and pushed one piece toward Leofric. “What I should do,” I said, “is go back to Northumbria. There is a man I have to kill.”

“A feud?”

I nodded again.

“There is one thing I know about blood feuds,” Leofric said, “which is that they last a lifetime. You will have years to make your killing, but only if you live.”

“I’ll live,” I said lightly.

“Not if the Danes take Wessex, you won’t. Or maybe you will live, earsling, but you’ll live under their rule, under their law, and under their swords. If you want to be a free man, then stay here and fight for Wessex.”

“For Alfred?”

Leofric leaned back, stretched, belched, and took a long drink. “I don’t like him either,” he admitted, “and I didn’t like his brothers when they were kings here, and I didn’t like his father when he was king, but Alfred’s different.”

“Different?”

He tapped his scarred forehead. “The bastard thinks, earsling, which is more than you or I ever do. He knows what has to be done, and don’t underestimate him. He can be ruthless.”

“He’s a king,” I said. “He should be ruthless.”

“Ruthless, generous, pious, boring, that’s Alfred,” Leofric spoke gloomily. “When he was a child his father gave him toy warriors. You know, carved out of wood? Just little things. He used to line them up and there wasn’t one out of place, not one, and not even a speck of dust on any of them!” He seemed to find that appalling, for he scowled. “Then when he was fifteen or so he went wild for a time. Humped every slave girl in the palace, and I’ve no doubt he lined them up, too, and made sure they didn’t have any dust before he rammed them.”

“He had a bastard, too, I hear,” I said.

“Osferth,” Leofric said, surprising me with his knowledge, “hidden away in Winburnan. Poor little bastard must be six, seven years old now? You’re not supposed to know he exists.”

“Nor are you.”

“It was my sister he whelped him on,” Leofric said, then saw my surprise. “I’m not the only good-looking one in my family, earsling.” He poured more ale. “Eadgyth was a palace servant and Alfred claimed to love her.” He sneered, then shrugged. “But he looks after her now. Gives her money, sends priests to preach to her. His wife knows all about the poor little bastard, but won’t let Alfred go near him.”

“I hate Ælswith,” I said.

“A bitch from hell,” he agreed happily.

“And I like the Danes,” I said.

“You do? So why do you kill them?”

“I like them,” I said, ignoring his question, “because they’re not frightened of life.”

“They’re not Christians, you mean.”

“They’re not Christians,” I agreed. “Are you?”

Leofric thought for a few heartbeats. “I suppose so,” he said grudgingly, “but you’re not, are you?” I shook my head, showed him Thor’s hammer, and he laughed. “So what will you do, earsling,” he asked me, “if you go back to the pagans? Other than follow your blood feud?”

That was a good question and I thought about it as much as the ale allowed me. “I’d serve a man called Ragnar,” I said, “as I served his father.”

“So why did you leave his father?”

“Because he was killed.”

Leofric frowned. “So you can stay there so long as your Danish lord lives, is that right? And without a lord you’re nothing?”

“I’m nothing,” I admitted. “But I want to be in Northumbria to take back my father’s fortress.”

“Ragnar will do that for you?”

“He might do it. His father would have done it, I think.”

“And if you get back your fortress,” he asked, “will you be lord of it? Lord of your own land? Or will the Danes rule you?”

“The Danes will rule.”

“So you settle to be a slave, eh? Yes, lord, no, lord, let me hold your prick while you piss all over me, lord?”

“And what happens if I stay here?” I asked sourly.

“You’ll lead men,” he said.

I laughed at that. “Alfred has lords enough to serve him.”

Leofric shook his head. “He doesn’t. He has some good warlords, true, but he needs more. I told him, that day on the boat when he let the bastards escape, I told him to send me ashore and give me men. He refused.” He beat the table with a massive fist. “I told him I’m a proper warrior, but still the bastard refused me!”

So that, I thought, was what the argument had been about. “Why did he refuse you?” I asked.

“Because I can’t read,” Leofric snarled, “and I’m not learning now! I tried once, and it makes no damn sense to me. And I’m not a lord, am I? Not even a thegn. I’m just a slave’s son who happens to know how to kill the king’s enemies, but that’s not good enough for Alfred. He says I can assist”—he said that word as if it soured his tongue—“one of his ealdormen, but I can’t lead men because I can’t read, and I can’t learn to read.”

“I can,” I said, or the drink said.

“You take a long time to understand things, earsling,” Leofric said with a grin. “You’re a damned lord, and you can read, can’t you?”

“No, not really. A bit. Short words.”

“But you can learn?”

I thought about it. “I can learn.”

“And we have twelve ships’ crews,” he said, “looking for employment, so we give them to Alfred and we say that Lord Earsling is their leader and he gives you a book and you read out the pretty words, then you and I take the bastards to war and do some proper damage to your beloved Danes.”