fight against a young warrior who had extraordinary skill with a sword. He danced around the king, then chopped off his left hand before slitting his belly with a sweeping cut and, because Osbert was a heavy man, his guts spilled out like eels slithering from a ruptured sack. Some of the Danes were weak with laughter after that. The king took a long time to die, and while he cried for relief, the Danes crucified a captured priest who had fought against them in the battle. They were intrigued and repelled by our religion, and they were angry when the priest’s hands pulled free of the nails and some claimed it was impossible to kill a man that way, and they argued that point drunkenly, then tried to nail the priest to the hall’s timber walls a second time until, bored with it, one of their warriors slammed a spear into the priest’s chest, crushing his ribs and mangling his heart.
A handful of them turned on me once the priest was dead and, because I had worn a helmet with a giltbronze circlet, they thought I must be a king’s son and they put me in a robe and a man climbed onto the table to piss on me, and just then a huge voice bellowed at them to stop and Ragnar bullied his way through the crowd. He snatched the robe from me and harangued the men, telling them I knew not what, but whatever he said made them stop and Ragnar then put an arm around my shoulders and took me to a dais at the side of the hall and gestured I should climb up to it. An old man was eating alone there. He was blind, both eyes milky white, and had a deeplined face framed by gray hair as long as Ragnar’s. He heard me clamber up and asked a question, and Ragnar answered and then walked away.
“You must be hungry, boy,” the old man said in English.
I did not answer. I was terrified of his blind eyes.
“Have you vanished?” he asked. “Did the dwarves pluck you down to the underearth?”
“I’m hungry,” I admitted.
“So you are there after all,” he said, “and there’s pork here, and bread, and cheese, and ale. Tell me your name.”
I almost said Osbert, then remembered I was Uhtred. “Uhtred,” I said.
“An ugly name,” the old man said, “but my son said I was to look after you, so I will, but you must look after me too. You could cut me some pork?”
“Your son?” I asked.
“Earl Ragnar,” he said, “sometimes called Ragnar the Fearless. Who were they killing in here?”
“The king,” I said, “and a priest.”
“Which king?”
“Osbert.”
“Did he die well?”
“No.”
“Then he shouldn’t have been king.”
“Are you a king?” I asked
He laughed. “I am Ravn,” he said, “and once I was an earl and a warrior, but now I am blind so I am no use to anyone. They should beat me over the head with a cudgel and send me on my way to the netherworld.” I said nothing to that because I did not know what to say. “But I try to be useful,” Ravn went on, his hands groping for bread. “I speak your language and the language of the Britons and the tongue of the Wends and the speech of the Frisians and that of the Franks. Language is now my trade, boy, because I have become a skald.”
“A skald?”
“A scop, you would call me. A poet, a weaver of dreams, a man who makes glory from nothing and dazzles you with its making. And my job now is to tell this day’s tale in such a way that men will never forget our great deeds.”
“But if you cannot see,” I asked, “how can you tell what happened?”
Ravn laughed at that. “Have you heard of Odin? Then you should know that Odin sacrificed one of his own eyes so that he could obtain the gift of poetry. So perhaps I am twice as good a skald as Odin, eh?”
“I am descended from Woden,” I said.
“Are you?” He seemed impressed, or perhaps he just wanted to be kind. “So who are you, Uhtred, descendant of the great Odin?”
“I am the Ealdorman of Bebbanburg,” I said, and that reminded me I was fatherless and my defiance crumpled and, to my shame, I began to cry. Ravn ignored me as he listened to the drunken shouts and the songs and the shrieks of the girls who had been captured in our camp and who now provided the warriors with the reward for their victory, and watching their antics took my mind off my sorrow because, in truth, I had never seen such things before, though, God be thanked, I took plenty of such rewards myself in times to come.
“Bebbanburg?” Ravn said. “I was there before you were born. It was twenty years ago.”
“At Bebbanburg?”
“Not in the fortress,” he admitted, “it was far too strong. But I was to the north of it, on the island where the monks pray. I killed six men there. Not monks, men. Warriors.” He smiled to himself, remembering.
“Now tell me, Ealdorman Uhtred of Bebbanburg,” he went on, “what is happening.”
So I became his eyes and I told him of the men dancing, and the men stripping the women of their clothes, and what they then did to the women, but Ravn had no interest in that. “What,” he wanted to know, “are Ivar and Ubba doing?”
“Ivar and Ubba?”
“They will be on the high platform. Ubba is the shorter and looks like a barrel with a beard, and Ivar is so skinny that he is called Ivar the Boneless. He is so thin that you could press his feet together and shoot him from a bowstring.”
I learned later that Ivar and Ubba were the two oldest of three brothers and the joint leaders of this Danish army. Ubba was asleep, his blackhaired head cushioned by his arms that, in turn, were resting on the remnants of his meal, but Ivar the Boneless was awake. He had sunken eyes, a face like a skull, yellow hair drawn back to the nape of his neck, and an expression of sullen malevolence. His arms were thick with the golden rings Danes like to wear to prove their prowess in battle, while a gold chain was coiled around his neck. Two men were talking to him. One, standing just behind Ivar, seemed to whisper into his ear, while the other, a worriedlooking man, sat between the two brothers. I described all this to Ravn, who wanted to know what the worried man sitting between Ivar and Ubba looked like.
“No arm rings,” I said, “a gold circlet round his neck. Brown hair, long beard, quite old.”
“Everyone looks old to the young,” Ravn said. “That must be King Egbert.”
“King Egbert?” I had never heard of such a person.
“He was Ealdorman Egbert,” Ravn explained, “but he made his peace with us in the winter and we have rewarded him by making him king here in Northumbria. He is king, but we are the lords of the land.” He chuckled, and young as I was I understood the treachery involved. Ealdorman Egbert held estates to the south of our kingdom and was what my father had been in the north, a great power, and the Danes had suborned him, kept him from the fight, and now he would be called king, yet it was plain that he would be a king on a short leash. “If you are to live,” Ravn said to me, “then it would be wise to pay your respects to Egbert.”
“Live?” I blurted out the word. I had somehow thought that having survived the battle then of course I would live. I was a child, someone else’s responsibility, but Ravn’s words hammered home my reality. I should never have confessed my rank, I thought. Better to be a living slave than a dead ealdorman.
“I think you’ll live,” Ravn said. “Ragnar likes you and Ragnar gets what he wants. He says you attacked him?”
“I did, yes.”
“He would have enjoyed that. A boy who attacks Earl Ragnar? That must be some boy, eh? Too good a boy to waste on death he says, but then my son always had a regrettably sentimental side. I would have chopped your head off, but here you are, alive, and I think it would be wise if you were to bow to Egbert.”
Now, I think, looking back so far into my past, I have probably changed that night’s events. There was a feast, Ivar and Ubba were there, Egbert was trying to look like a king, Ravn was kind to me, but I am sure I was more confused and far more frightened than I have made it sound. Yet in other ways my memories of the feast are very precise. Watch and learn, my father had told me, and Ravn made me watch, and I did learn. I learned about treachery, especially when Ragnar, summoned by Ravn, took me by the collar and led me to the high dais where, after a surly gesture of permission from Ivar, I was allowed to approach the table. “Lord King,” I squeaked, then knelt so that a surprised Egbert had to lean forward to see me. “I am Uhtred of Bebbanburg,” I had been coached
