could thank God for giving him the strength to resist temptation. Later, much later, I discovered she was the same girl. Her name was Merewenna and I thanked God, in time, for not resisting temptation with her, but that lies far ahead in my tale, and for now I was at Alfred’s disposal or, rather, at ?lswith’s.
“Uhtred must learn to read,” she said. What business it was of hers I did not know, but no one disputed her statement.
“Amen,” Beocca said.
“The monks at Winburnan can teach him,” she suggested.
“A very good idea, my lady,” Beocca said, and the toothless bishop nodded and dribbled his approval.
“Abbot Hewald is a very diligent teacher,” ?lswith said. In truth Abbot Hewald was one of those bastards who would rather whip the young than teach them, but doubtless that was what ?lswith meant.
“I rather think,” Alfred put in, “that young Uhtred’s ambition is to be a warrior.”
“In time, if God wills it, he will be” ?lswith said, “but what use is a soldier who cannot read God’s word?”
“Amen,” Beocca said.
“No use at all,” Alfred agreed. I thought teaching a soldier to read was about as much use as teaching a
dog to dance, but said nothing, though Alfred sensed my skepticism. “Why is it good for a soldier to read, Uhtred?” he demanded of me.
“It is good for everyone to read,” I said dutifully, earning a smile from Beocca.
“A soldier who reads,” Alfred said patiently, “is a soldier who can read orders, a soldier who will know what his king wants. Suppose you are in Northumbria, Uhtred, and I am in Wessex. How else will you know my will?”
That was breathtaking, though I was too young to realize it at the time. If I was in Northumbria and he was in Wessex, then I was none of his damned business, but of course Alfred was already thinking ahead, far ahead, to a time when there would be one English kingdom and one English king. I just gaped at him and he smiled at me. “So Winburnan it is, young man,” he said, “and the sooner you are there, the better.”
“The sooner?” ?lswith knew nothing of this suggested haste and was sharply suspicious.
“The Danes, my dear,” Alfred explained, “will look for both children. If they discover they are here they may well demand their return.”
“But all hostages are to be freed,” ?lswith objected. “You said so yourself.”
“Was Uhtred a hostage?” Alfred asked softly, staring at me. “Or was he in danger of becoming a Dane?” He left the questions hanging, and I did not try to answer them. “We must make you into a true Englishman,” Alfred said, “so you must go south in the morning. You and the girl.”
“The girl doesn’t matter,” ?lswith said dismissively. Brida had been sent to eat with the kitchen slaves.
“If the Danes discover she’s Edmund’s bastard,” one of the ealdormen observed, “they’ll use her to destroy his reputation.”
“She never told them that,” I piped up, “because she thought they might mock him.”
“There’s some good in her then,” ?lswith said grudgingly. She helped herself to one of the softboiled eggs. “But what will you do,” she demanded of her husband, “if the Danes accuse you of rescuing the children?”
“I shall lie, of course,” Alfred said. ?lswith blinked at him, but the bishop mumbled that the lie would be for God and so forgivable.
I had no intention of going to Winburnan. That was not because I was suddenly avid to be a Dane, but it had everything to do with SerpentBreath. I loved that sword, and I had left it with Ragnar’s servants, and I wanted her back before my life took whatever path the spinners required of me and, to be sure, I had no wish to give up life with Ragnar for the scant joys of a monastery and a teacher. Brida, I knew, wished to go back to the Danes, and it was Alfred’s sensible insistence that we be removed from Ba um as soon as possible that gave us our opportunity.
We were sent away the next morning, before dawn, going south into a hilly country and escorted by a dozen warriors who resented the job of taking two children deep into the heartland of Wessex. I was given a horse, Brida was provided with a mule, and a young priest called Willibald was officially put in charge of delivering Brida to a nunnery and me to Abbot Hewald. Father Willibald was a nice man with
an easy smile and a kind manner. He could imitate bird calls and made us laugh by inventing a conversation between a quarrelsome fieldfare with its chackchack call and a soaring skylark, then he made us guess what birds he was imitating, and that entertainment, mixed in with some harmless riddles, took us to a settlement high above a softflowing river in the heavily wooded countryside. The soldiers insisted on stopping there because they said the horses needed a rest. “They really need ale,” Willibald told us, and shrugged as if it was understandable.
It was a warm day. The horses were hobbled outside the hall, the soldiers got their ale, bread, and cheese, then sat in a circle and threw dice and grumbled, leaving us to Willibald’s supervision, but the young priest stretched out on a halfcollapsed haystack and fell asleep in the sunlight. I looked at Brida, she looked at me, and it was as simple as that. We crept along the side of the hall, circled an enormous dung heap, dodged through some pigs that rooted in a field, wriggled through a hedge, and then we were in woodland where we both started to laugh. “My mother insisted I call him uncle,” Brida said in her small voice, “and the nasty Danes killed him,” and we both thought that was the funniest thing we had ever heard, and then we came to our senses and hurried northward. It was a long time before the soldiers searched for us, and later they brought hunting dogs from the hall where they had purchased ale, but by then we had waded up a stream, changed direction again, found higher ground, and hidden ourselves. They did not find us, though all afternoon we could hear the hounds baying in the valley. They must have been searching the riverbank, thinking we had gone there, but we were safe and alone and high.
They searched for two days, never coming close, and on the third day we saw Alfred’s royal cavalcade riding south on the road under the hill. The meeting at Ba um was over, and that meant the Danes were retreating to Readingum and neither of us had any idea how to reach Readingum, but we knew we had traveled west to reach Ba um, so that was a start, and we knew we had to find the river Temes, and our only two problems were food and the need to avoid being caught. That was a good time. We stole milk from the udders of cows and goats. We had no weapons, but we fashioned cudgels from fallen branches and used them to threaten some poor old man who was patiently digging a ditch and had a small sack with bread and pease pudding for his meal, and we stole that, and we caught fish with our hands, a trick that Brida taught me, and we lived in the woods. I wore my hammer amulet again. Brida had thrown away her wooden crucifix, but I kept the silver one for it was valuable.
After a few days we began traveling by night. We were both frightened at first, for the night is when the sceadugengan stir from their hiding places, but we became good at traversing the darkness. We skirted farms, following the stars, and we learned how to move without noise, how to be shadows. One night something large and growling came close and we heard it shifting, pawing the ground, and we both beat at the leaf mold with our cudgels and yelped and the thing went away. A boar? Perhaps. Or perhaps one of the shapeless, nameless sceadugengan that curdle dreams. We had to cross a range of high, bare hills where we managed to steal a lamb before the shepherd’s dogs even knew we were there. We lit a fire in the woods north of the hills and cooked the meat, and the next night we found the river. We did not know what river, but it was wide, it flowed beneath deep trees, and nearby was a settlement where we saw a small round boat made of bent willow sticks covered with goatskin. That night we stole the boat and let it carry us downstream, past settlements, under bridges, ever going east.
We did not know it, but the river was the Temes, and so we came safe to Readingum.
Rorik had died. He had been sick for so long, but there were times when he had seemed to recover, but whatever illness carried him away had done so swiftly and Brida and I reached Readingum on the day that his body was burned. Ragnar, in tears, stood by the pyre and watched as the flames consumed his son. A sword, a bridle, a hammer amulet, and a model ship had been placed on the fire, and after it was done the melted metal was placed with the ashes in a great pot that Ragnar buried close to the Temes.
“You are my second son now,” he told me that night, and then remembered Brida, “and you are my daughter.” He embraced us both, then got drunk. The next morning he wanted to ride out and kill West Saxons, but Ravn and Halfdan restrained him.
The truce was holding. Brida and I had only been gone a little over three weeks and already the first silver was coming to Readingum, along with fodder and food. Alfred, it seemed, was a man of his word and Ragnar was a man of grief. “How will I tell Sigrid?” he wanted to know.
