made in the hamlet Brand had selected for their last stand.
As the light grew they looked out on a sight to daunt the boldest. The army they had fought the day before, like themselves, had grown steadily more ragged—clothes sodden, shields defaced with muck, its men grimed up to their eyebrows, weakened by a steady trickle of casualties and deserters—down to the point where it was barely half again their own size.
It had gone. In its place, drawn up in front of them, rank on rank, horns blasting a continual challenge, stood a new army, as fresh as if it had never marched a mile. Shields blazed with new paint, mail and weapons glinted red in the dawn. Crosses towered over the ranks, but the banners—the banners were different. Next to the crosses, a golden dragon.
From the line in front of them trotted a rider on a gray horse, his saddle and trappings bright scarlet, shield turned outward in sign of truce.
“He wants a parley,” Shef said.
Silently the Waymen shifted an upturned cart to one side, allowed their leaders to edge out: Brand, Shef, Thorvin and Farman, Guthmund and Steinulf. Still silent, they tramped behind the horsemen to a long trestle-table, set up incongruously in the midst of the standing men.
To one side of it sat Cwichelm and Alfgar, faces set. Wulfgar in his vertical box a pace behind them. The herald waved the six councillors of the Way to stools opposite.
Between the two groups sat one man—young, fair-haired, blue-eyed, a golden circle on his head like the old king in the mound. He had a strange, intense look, thought Shef. As he sat down, their eyes met. The young man smiled.
“I am Alfred, atheling of Wessex, brother of King Ethelred,” he said. “I understand that my brother's fellow- king, Burgred of the Mark, has appointed an alderman for the shires once belonging to the king of the East Angles.” He paused. “That cannot be allowed.” Sour looks, silence from Alfgar and Cwichelm. They must have heard this already.
“At the same time I will not allow any Viking army from the North to base itself within any English shire, to rob and kill as has been your custom. Rather than do that I will destroy you all.”
Another pause. “But I do not know what to do with you. From what I hear, you fought and beat Ivar Ragnarsson yesterday. Him, I will have no peace with, for he killed my brother's fellow-king Edmund. Who killed King Ella?”
“I did,” said Shef. “But he would have thanked me for it if he could. I told Ivar that what he did to the king was
“On so much we agree, then. The thing is, can I have peace with you? Or must we fight?”
“Have you asked your priests?” said Thorvin in his slow, careful English.
The young man smiled. “My brother and I have found that whenever we ask them anything, they demand money. Nor will they aid us even to keep off the likes of Ivar. But I am a Christian still. I believe in the faith of my fathers. I hope one day even you warriors of the North will take baptism and submit to our law. But I am not a Churchman.”
“Some of us are Christians,” said Shef. “Some of us are English.”
“Are they full fellows of your army? With full rights to share?”
Brand, Guthmund and Steinulf looked at each other as they grasped the sense of the question. “If you say they must be, then they are,” said Shef.
“So. You are English and Norse. You are Christian and heathen.”
“Not heathen,” said Thorvin. “Wayman.”
“But you can get along together. Maybe that is a model for us all. Listen, all of you. We can work out a treaty: shares and taxation, rights and duties, rules about wergilds and freedmen. All details. But the center of it must be this:
“I will give you Norfolk, to rule under your own law. But you must rule fairly. Never let in invaders. And the one who becomes alderman, he must swear on my relics and on your holy things to be the good friend of King Ethelred and his brother. Now, if that is to happen, who shall the alderman be?”
Brand's scarred hand reached out, tapped Shef. “He it must be, king's brother. He speaks two languages. He lives in two worlds. See, he has not the mark of the Way on him. He has been baptized. But he is our friend. Choose him.”
“He is a runaway,” yelled Alfgar suddenly. “He is a thrall. He has the marks of the whip on his back!”
“And of the torturer on his face,” said Alfred. “Maybe he will see to it there is less of both in England. But console yourself, young man. I shall not send you back to King Burgred alone.”
He waved a hand. From somewhere behind them came a flutter of skirts. A group of women were led into view.
“I found this party left behind and wandering, so I brought them along lest worse befall. I hear one of them is your wife, young noble. Take her back to King Burgred and be grateful.”
His wife, thought Shef, staring deeply into Godive's gray eyes. She looked more beautiful than ever. What could she possibly think of him, covered in mire, stinking of sweat and worse, eye sunk in its socket? Her face showed utter horror. He felt a cold fist close round his heart.
Then she was in his arms, weeping. He held her tight with one hand, looked round. Alfgar was on his feet, struggling in the grip of two guards, Wulfgar bellowing from his box, Alfred rising with alarm on his face.
As the tumult ceased, Shef spoke. “She is mine.”
“She is my wife,” shouted Alfgar.
She is his half sister too, thought Shef. If I said that the Church would intervene, take her away from him. But then I would be letting the rule of the Church shape me and the law of the Way. The land of the Way.
This is the price the old
He stood still as the attendants pulled Godive from him, drew her back to incest—her husband—and the bloodstained birch.
To be a king, to be a leader, demands things that cannot be asked of an ordinary man.
“If you are prepared to return the woman as a sign of good faith,” said Alfred clearly, “I will take Suffolk into my brother's realm, but recognize you, Shef Sigwardsson, as alderman of Norfolk. What do you say?”
“Do not say ‘alderman’,” said Brand, cutting in. “Use our word. Say he will be our jarl.”
Jarl
Chapter One
Shef sat facing the crowd of supplicants on a plain, three-legged stool. He still wore a hemp tunic and woolen breeches, with no signs of rank. But in the crook of his left arm rested the whetstone-scepter taken from the mound of the old king. From time to time Shef ran a thumb gently over one of its cruel carved, bearded faces as he listened to the witnesses.
“…and so we took the case to King Edmund at Norwich. And he judged it in his private chamber—he had just returned from hunting and was washing his hands, God strike me blind if I lie—and he decided that the land should come to me for ten years and then be returned.”
The speaker, a middle-aged thane of Norfolk, years of good living swelling his gold-mounted belt, hesitated for a moment in his tirade, unsure whether the mention of God might not count against him in a Wayman court of doom.
“Have you any witnesses to this agreement?” Shef asked.
The thane, Leofwin, puffed out his cheeks with grotesque pomposity. Not used to being questioned, or contradicted, evidently.
