‘But the dragon and the star do not lie,’ he went on. ‘The trouble will come from the north. The prophet has told us so in the scriptures! “Quia malum ego adduco ab aquilone et contritionem magnam.”’ He paused, hoping one of us would ask him to translate.
‘I will bring evil from the north,’ Benedetta disappointed him, ‘and much destroying.’
‘Much destruction!’ Father Cuthbert said ominously. ‘Evil will come from the north! It is written!’
And next morning the evil came.
From the south.
The ship came from the south. There was hardly a breath of wind, the sea was lazy, its small waves collapsing exhausted on Bebbanburg’s long beach. The approaching ship, its prow crested with a cross, left a widening ripple that was touched with glittering gold by the early morning sun. She was being rowed, her oars rising and falling in a slow, weary rhythm. ‘Poor bastards must have been rowing all night,’ Berg said. He commanded the morning’s guards posted on Bebbanburg’s ramparts.
‘Forty oars,’ I said, more to make conversation than to tell Berg what he could plainly see for himself.
‘And coming here.’
‘From where, though?’
Berg shrugged. ‘What’s happening today?’ he asked.
It was my turn to shrug. What would happen was what always happened. Cauldrons would be lit to boil clothes clean, salt would evaporate in the pans north of the fortress, men would practise with shields, swords and spears, horses exercised, fish would be smoked, water drawn from the deep wells, and ale brewed in the fortress kitchens. ‘I plan to do nothing,’ I said, ‘but you can take two men and remind Olaf Einerson that he owes me rent. A lot of rent.’
‘His wife’s ill, lord.’
‘He said that last winter.’
‘And he lost half his flock to Scotsmen.’
‘More likely he sold them,’ I said sourly. ‘No one else has complained of Scottish raiders this spring.’ Olaf Einerson had inherited his tenancy from his father, who had never failed to deliver fleeces or silver as rent. Olaf, the son, was a big and capable man whose ambitions, it seemed to me, went beyond raising hardy sheep on the high hills. ‘On second thoughts,’ I said, ‘take fifteen men and scare the shit out of the bastard. I don’t trust him.’
The ship was close enough now that I could see three men sitting just forward of the stern platform. One was a priest, or at least he was wearing a long black robe and it was he who stood and waved up at our ramparts. I did not wave back. ‘Whoever they are,’ I told Berg, ‘bring them to the hall. They can watch me drink ale. And wait before you smack some sense into Olaf.’
‘Wait, lord?’
‘Let’s see what news they’re bringing first,’ I said, nodding at the ship that was now turning towards the narrow entrance of Bebbanburg’s harbour. The ship carried no cargo that I could see, and her oarsmen looked bone weary, suggesting that she brought urgent news. ‘She’s from Æthelstan,’ I guessed.
‘Æthelstan?’ Berg asked.
‘She’s not a Northumbrian ship, is she?’ I asked. Northumbrian ships had narrower prows, while southern shipwrights preferred a broad bow. Besides, this ship displayed the cross which few Northumbrian ships carried. ‘And who uses priests to carry messages?’
‘King Æthelstan.’
I watched the ship turn into the entrance channel, then led Berg off the ramparts. ‘Look after his oarsmen. Send them food and ale, and bring the damn priest to the hall.’
I climbed to the hall where two servants were attacking cobwebs with long willow switches tied with bundles of feathers. Benedetta was watching to make sure every last spider was driven from the fortress. ‘We have visitors,’ I told her, ‘so your war against spiders must wait.’
‘I am not at war,’ she insisted, ‘I like spiders. But not in my home. Who are the visitors?’
‘I’m guessing they’re messengers from Æthelstan.’
‘Then we must greet them properly!’ She clapped her hands and ordered benches to be brought. ‘And bring the throne from the platform,’ she commanded.
‘It’s not a throne,’ I said, ‘just a fancy bench.’
‘Ouff!’ she said. It was a noise Benedetta made whenever I exasperated her. It made me smile, which only irritated her more. ‘It is a throne,’ she insisted, ‘and you are King of Bebbanburg.’
‘Lord,’ I corrected her.
‘You are as much a king as that fool Guthfrith,’ she made the sign to ward off evil, ‘or Owain, or anyone else.’ It was an old argument and I let it drop.
‘And have the girls bring ale,’ I said, ‘and some food. Preferably not stale.’
‘And you should wear the dark robe. I fetch it.’
Benedetta was from Italy, snatched as a child from her home by slavers, then traded across Christendom until she reached Wessex. I had freed her and now she was the Lady of Bebbanburg, though not my wife. ‘My grandmother,’ she had told me more than once, and always making the sign of the cross as she spoke, ‘told me I should never marry. I would be cursed! I have been cursed enough in life. Now I am happy! Why should I risk a grandmother’s curse? My grandmother was never wrong!’
I grumpily allowed her to drape the costly black robe over my shoulders, refused to wear the bronze-gilt circlet that had belonged to my father, and then, with Benedetta beside me, I waited for the priest.
And it was an old friend who came from the sunlight into the dusty shadows of Bebbanburg’s great hall. It was Father Oda, now Bishop of Rammesburi, who walked tall and elegant, his long black robe hemmed with dark red cloth. He was escorted by a pair of West Saxon warriors who politely gave my steward their swords before following Oda towards me. ‘Anyone would think,’ the bishop said as he came closer, ‘that you were a king!’
‘He is,’ Benedetta insisted.
‘And anyone would think,’ I said, ‘that you were a bishop.’
He smiled. ‘By the grace of God, Lord Uhtred, I am.’
‘By the grace of Æthelstan,’ I said, then stood and greeted him with an embrace. ‘Do I congratulate you?’
‘If
