As the king of the Mercians strode into the room, the men in it rose and bowed. The one woman, the East Anglian beauty with the sad face and the brilliant eyes, rose and made her courtesy in the new style of the Franks. Two attendants—they had been arguing quietly about the right thing to do—lifted Wulfgar's padded box to the vertical before leaning it back against the wall. At a gesture they resumed their seats: stools for all but the king and the heimnar. Wulfgar too was lifted into a highseat with wooden arms. He could not have balanced himself to sit on a stool.
“I have news from Eoforwich,” began the king. “Later news than you brought,” with a nod to Wulfgar. “And better news. Still, it has decided me to act.
“It seems that after the surrender by the Church of the town and of King Ella—”
“Say, rather,” cut in the young atheling from Wessex, “the disgraceful betrayal of King Ella by those he had protected.”
Burgred frowned. The young man, he had noticed, had little sense of respect to kings, and none at all for senior members of the Church.
“After the surrender of King Ella, he was unhappily put to death in vile manner by the heathen Ragnarssons, and especially the one called the Boneless. Just as happened to your master, the noble Edmund,” he added, nodding again to Wulfgar.
“But it seems that this caused dissension among the heathens. Indeed there is a strange story that the execution was put to an end by a
“Yet the important news is the dissension. For after it the Viking army split.”
Mutters of surprise and pleasure.
“Some of them have now left Eoforwich and are marching south. A lesser part of the Army, but still formidable. Where, I must ask myself, are they heading? And I say, they are heading back to East Anglia, from where they came.”
“Back to their ships,” snapped Alfgar.
“That could well be. Now, I do not think the East Anglians will fight them again. They lost their king and too many leaders, thanes and warriors in the battle by the Stour, from which you, young man, so valiantly fought your way. Yet, as you have all been telling me,” Burgred glanced sarcastically at Alfred, “the Vikings must be fought.
“So I shall send East Anglia a war-leader, with a strong force of my men to support him till he can rally his own.
“You, young man. Alfgar, son of Wulfgar. You are of the North-folk. Your father was a thane of King Edmund. Your family has lost more, suffered more and dared more than any other. You will put the kingdom back on its feet.
“Only it can no longer be a kingdom.”
Burgred locked eyes with the young atheling, Alfred of Wessex: eyes as blue and hair as blond as Alfgar's, a true prince of a royal line. But something queer, cross-grained about him. A clever look. They both knew that this was the sticking point. Burgred of Mercia had no more claim to East Anglia than Ethelred of Wessex. Yet the one who filled the gap would clearly become the mightier of the two.
“What would my title be?” asked Alfgar carefully.
“Alderman. Of the North-folk and the South-folk.”
“Those are two shires,” objected Alfred. “A man cannot be alderman of two shires at once.”
“New times, new things,” replied Burgred. “But what you say is true. In time, Alfgar, you may win a new title. You may be what the priests call
Alfgar knelt silently at the king's feet and put his hands between the king's knees in token of subjection. The king patted his shoulder and lifted him up.
“We will do this more formally by and by. I just wanted to know we are all agreed.” He turned to Alfred. “And yes, young atheling, I know you have not agreed. But tell your king and brother the way of it is now this. Let him stay his side of the Thames and I'll stay mine. But north of the Thames and south of the Humber: that belongs to me. All of it.”
Burgred let the tense silence hang a moment and then thought to disperse it. “One strange piece of news they told me. The Ragnarssons have always led the Great Army, but they have all stayed in Eoforwich. Those who marched away are said to have no leaders, or many. But one report is that among their leaders, or their main leader, is an Englishman. A man of the East Angles by his speech, the messenger said. But he could only give me what the Vikings call him, and they speak English so badly I could not make it out as a man's name at all. They call him Skjef Sigvarthsson. Now what could that be in English? Even in East Anglian?”
“Shef!” It was the silent woman who had spoken. Or gasped. Her eyes, her brilliant liquid eyes, blazed with life. Her husband stared at her like one who measures a back for the birch, while her father-in-law goggled and reddened.
“I thought you saw him dead,” snarled the heimnar accusingly at his son.
“I will yet,” muttered Alfgar. “Just give me the men.”
Nearly two hundred miles to the north, Shef turned once again in his saddle to see if the rear-guard was keeping up. Important to have everyone well closed up, all within earshot of each other. Shef knew that four times his own number were pounding the filthy road behind him, unable to attack while Shef held his thirty hostages, the choirmonks of St. John's and their abbot Saxwulf. It was important too to keep up the pace, even after their long night's ride, to outrun the news of their coming and prevent any arrangement being made for their reception.
The smell of the sea led them on—and there, as they came trampling over a slight rise, there as an unmistakable landmark was Flamborough Head itself. Shef urged the vanguard on with a yell and a wave.
Guthmund dropped back a yard or two, hand still clutching the bridle of the abbot's horse. Shef waved him over. “Keep up—and keep the abbot close to me.”
With a whoop he spurred his tiring gelding forward, catching up just as the whole cavalcade, a hundred and twenty raiders and thirty hostages, stormed down the long slope into the squalid huddle of Bridlington.
Instant confusion. Women running, snatching up blue-legged ragged children, men seizing spears, dropping them again, some racing for shelter down to the beach and the boats drawn up on the dirty snow-covered sand. Shef wheeled his horse and thrust the abbot forward like a trophy, instantly recognizable in his black robes.
“Peace,” he shouted, “Peace. I want Ordlaf.”
But Ordlaf was already there, the reeve of Bridlington, the capturer—though no one had ever credited him with it—of Ragnar. He stepped forward from his people, eyeing the Vikings and the monks with amazement, reluctantly taking responsibility.
“Show them the abbot,” Shef snapped to Guthmund. “Make those behind keep their distance.” He pointed at Ordlaf the reeve. “You and I have met before. The day you netted Ragnar.”
Dismounting, he drove his halberd-spike deep into the sandy soil. Putting his hand on the reeve's shoulder, he drew him a little away, out of earshot of the wrathfully glaring abbot, began to speak in urgent tones.
“It's impossible,” said Ordlaf a minute later. “Can't be done.”
“Why not? It's a high sea, and cold, but the wind is from the west.”
“Southwest a point west,” corrected Ordlaf automatically.
“You can run downcoast with it on your beam. To the Spurn. Twenty-five miles, no more. Be there by dark. Never out of sight of land. I'm not asking for a sea-crossing. If the weather changes we can drop sea-anchor and ride it out.”
“We'd be pulling into the teeth of it once we got to the Spurn.”
Shef jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Best rowers in the world, right with you. You can set them to it and stand back at the steering oar like lords.”
“Well… What happens when I get back and the abbot sends his men down to burn me out?”
“You did it to save the abbot's life.”
“I doubt he'll be grateful.”
“You can take your time coming back. Time enough to hide what we'll pay you. Silver from the minster. Your silver. Your rents for many a year. Hide it, melt it down. They'll never trace it.”
