“Yes it does,” he insisted patiently, “so tell me.”
There was something about Guthred that always made me tell the truth to him, or mostly tell the truth, and I was tempted to answer that Alfred would drag the old king out to the marketplace and lop off his head, but I knew that was not true. Alfred had spared his traitorous cousin’s life after Ethandun and he had permitted his nephew, ?thelwold, to live when that nephew had a better claim to the throne than Alfred himself. So I sighed. “He’d let him live,” I said, “but Alfred’s a pious fool.”
“No he’s not,” Guthred said.
“He’s terrified of God’s disapproval,” I said.
“That’s a sensible thing to be frightened of,” Guthred said.
“Kill Egbert, lord,” I said vehemently. “If you don’t kill him then he’ll try to get the kingdom back. He’s got estates south of here. He can raise men. You let him live and he’ll take those men to Ivarr, and Ivarr will want him back on the throne. Egbert’s an enemy!”
“He’s an old man, and he’s not well and he’s frightened,” Guthred said patiently.
“So put the bastard out of his misery,” I urged him. “I’ll do it for you. I’ve never killed a king.”
“And you’d like to?”
“I’ll kill this one for you,” I said. “He let his Saxons massacre Danes! He’s not as pathetic as you think.”
Guthred gave me a reproachful look. “I know you, Uhtred,” he said fondly. “You want to boast that you’re the man who killed Ubba beside the sea and unhorsed Svein of the White Horse and sent King Egbert of Eoferwic to his cold grave.”
“And killed Kjartan the Cruel,” I said, “and slaughtered ?lfric, usurper of Bebbanburg.”
“I’m glad I’m not your enemy,” he said lightly, then grimaced. “The ale is sour here.”
“They make it differently,” I explained. “What does Abbot Eadred tell you to do?”
“The same as you and Ulf, of course. Kill Egbert.”
“For once Eadred’s right.”
“But Alfred would not kill him,” he said firmly.
“Alfred is king of Wessex,” I said, “and he’s not facing Ivarr, and he doesn’t have a rival like Egbert.”
“But Alfred’s a good king,” Guthred insisted.
I kicked the palisade in my frustration. “Why would you let Egbert live?” I demanded, “so that folk will like you?”
“I want men to like me,” he said.
“They should fear you,” I said vehemently. “You’re a king! You have to be ruthless. You have to be feared.”
“Is Alfred feared?”
“Yes,” I said, and was surprised to realize I had spoken the truth.
“Because he’s ruthless?”
I shook my head. “Men fear his displeasure.” I had never realized that before, but it was suddenly clear to me. Alfred was not ruthless. He was given to mercy, but he was still feared. I think men recognized that Alfred was under discipline, just as they were under his rule. Alfred’s discipline was fear of his god’s displeasure. He could never escape that. He could never be as good as he wanted, but he never stopped trying. Me, I had long accepted that I was fallible, but Alfred would never accept that of himself.
“I would like men to fear my displeasure,” Guthred said mildly.
“Then let me kill Egbert,” I said, and could have saved my breath.
Guthred, inspired by his reverence for Alfred, spared Egbert’s life, and in the end he was proved right. He made the old king go to live in a monastery south of the river and he charged the monks to keep Egbert confined to the monastery’s walls, which they did, and within a year Egbert died of some disease that wasted him away to a pain-racked scrap of bone and sinew. He was buried in the big church at Eoferwic, though I saw none of that.
It was high summer by now and every day I feared to see Ivarr’s men coming south, but instead there came a rumor of a great battle between Ivarr and the Scots. There were always such rumors, and most are untrue, so I gave it no credence, but Guthred decided to believe the story and he gave his permission for most of his army to go back to Cumbraland to gather their harvest. That left us very few troops to garrison Eoferwic. Guthred’s household troops stayed and every morning I made them practice with swords, shields and spears, and every afternoon made them work to repair Eoferwic’s wall that was falling down in too many places. I thought Guthred a fool to let most of his men go, but he said that without a harvest his people would starve, and he was quite certain they would return. And again he was right. They did return. Ulf led them back from Cumbraland and demanded to know how the gathering army would be employed.
“We march north to settle Kjartan,” Guthred said.
“And ?lfric,” I insisted.
“Of course,” Guthred said.
“How much plunder does Kjartan have?” Ulf wanted to know.
“Vast plunder,” I said, remembering Tekil’s tales. I said nothing of the feral dogs that guarded the silver and gold. “Kjartan is rich beyond dreams.”
“Time to sharpen our swords,” Ulf said.
“And ?lfric has an even bigger hoard,” I added, though I had no idea whether I spoke the truth.
But I truly believed we could capture Bebbanburg. It had never been taken by an enemy, but that did not mean it could not be taken. It all depended on Ivarr. If he could be defeated then Guthred would be the most powerful man in Northumbria and Guthred was my friend and he, I believed, would not only help me kill Kjartan and so revenge Ragnar the Elder, but then return me to my lands and to my fortress beside the sea. Those were my dreams that summer. I thought the future was golden if only I could secure the kingdom for Guthred, but I had forgotten the malevolence of the three spinners at the world’s root.
Father Willibald wanted to return to Wessex, for which I did not blame him. He was a West Saxon and he disliked Northumbria. I remember one night when we ate a dish of elder, which is cow’s udder pressed and cooked, and I was devouring it and saying that I had not eaten so well since I was a child, and poor Willibald could not finish a mouthful. He looked as though he wanted to be sick, and I mocked him for being a weak-spined southerner. Sihtric, who was my servant now, brought him bread and cheese instead and Hild and I divided his elder between us. She was a southerner too, but not so choosy as Willibald. It was that night, as he grimaced at the food, that he told us he wanted to go back to Alfred.
We had heard little news of Wessex, except that it was at peace. Guthrum, of course, had been defeated and had accepted baptism as part of the peace treaty he made with Alfred. He had taken the baptismal name of ?thelstan, which meant “noble stone’, and Alfred was his godfather, and reports from the south said that Guthrum or whatever he was now called was keeping the peace. Alfred lived, and that was about all we knew.
Guthred decided he would send an embassy to Alfred. He chose four Danes and four Saxons to ride south, reckoning that such a group could ride safely through Danish or Saxon territory, and he chose Willibald to carry his message. Willibald wrote it down, his quill scratching on a piece of newly scraped parchment. “By God’s help,” Guthred dictated, “I have taken the kingdom of Northumbria…”
“Which is called Haliwerfolkland,” Eadred interrupted.
Guthred waved courteously, as if to suggest that Willibald could decide for himself whether to add that phrase. “And I am determined,” Guthred went on, “by God’s grace to rule this land in peace and justice…”
“Not so fast, lord,” Willibald said.
“And to teach them how to brew proper ale,” Guthred continued.
“And to teach them…” Willibald said under his breath.
Guthred laughed. “No, no, father! You don’t write that!”
Poor Willibald. That letter was so long that another lambskin had to be stretched, scraped, and trimmed. The message went on and on about the holy Saint Cuthbert and how he had brought the army of the holy folk to Eoferwic, and how Guthred would make a shrine to the saint. The letter did mention that there were still enemies who might spoil that ambition, but it made light of them, as though Ivarr and Kjartan and ?lfric were minor obstacles. It asked for King Alfred’s prayers and assured the king of Wessex that prayers were being said for him each day by the Christians of Haliwerfolkland. “I should send Alfred a present,” Guthred said, “what would he like?”
“A relic,” I suggested sourly.
