murder its inhabitants. This was the first time I had returned since that foul night.
Ragnar’s men lived in the settlement or in the nearby hills, though the first person I saw was Ethne, the Scottish slave we had freed at Gyruum. She was carrying two pails of water and she did not recognize me till I called her name. Then she dropped the pails and ran toward the houses, shouting, and Finan emerged from a low doorway. He shouted with delight, and more folk appeared, and suddenly there was a crowd cheering because Ragnar had come back to his people.
Finan could not wait for me to dismount. He walked beside my horse, grinning. “You want to know how Sverri died?” he asked me.
“Slowly?” I guessed.
“And loudly.” He grinned. “And we took his money.”
“Much money?”
“More than you can dream of!” he said exultantly. “And we burned his house. Left his woman and children weeping.”
“You let them live?”
He looked embarrassed. “Ethne felt sorry for them. But killing him was pleasure enough.” He grinned up at me again. “So are we going to war?”
“We’re going to war.”
“We’re to fight that bastard Guthred, eh?” Finan said.
“You want to do that?”
“He sent a priest to say we had to pay the church money! We chased him away.”
“I thought you were a Christian,” I said.
“I am,” Finan said defensively, “but I’ll be damned before I give a priest a tenth of my money.”
The men of Synningthwait expected to fight for Ivarr. They were Danes, and they saw the imminent war as one between Danes and upstart Saxons, though none had much enthusiasm for the fight because Ivarr was not liked. Ivarr’s summons had reached Synningthwait five days before and Rollo, who commanded in Ragnar’s absence, had deliberately dallied. Now the decision belonged to Ragnar and that night, in front of his hall where a great fire burned beneath the clouds, he invited his men to speak their minds. Ragnar could have ordered them to do whatever he wanted, but he had not seen most of them in three years and he wanted to know their temper. “I’ll let them speak,” he told me, “then I’ll tell them what we’ll do.”
“What will we do?” I asked.
Ragnar grinned. “I don’t know yet.”
Rollo spoke first. He did not dislike Guthred, he said, but he wondered if Guthred was the best king for Northumbria. “A land needs a king,” he said, “and that king should be fair and just and generous and strong. Guthred is neither just nor strong. He favors the Christians.” Men murmured support.
Beocca was sitting beside me and understood enough of what was being said to become upset. “Alfred supports Guthred!” he hissed to me.
“Be quiet,” I warned him.
“Guthred,” Rollo went on, “demanded that we pay a tax to the Christian priests.”
“Did you?” Ragnar asked.
“No.”
“If Guthred is not king,” Ragnar demanded, “who should be?” No one spoke. “Ivarr?” Ragnar suggested, and a shudder went through the crowd. No one liked Ivarr, and no one spoke except Beocca and he only managed one word before I choked off his protest with a sharp dig into his bony ribs. “What about Earl Ulf?” Ragnar asked.
“Too old now,” Rollo said. “Besides he’s gone back to Cair Ligualid and wants to stay there.”
“Is there a Saxon who would leave us Danes alone?” Ragnar asked, and again no one answered. “Another Dane, then?” Ragnar suggested.
“It must be Guthred!” Beocca snapped like a dog.
Rollo took a pace forward as if what he was about to say was important. “We would follow you, lord,” he said to Ragnar, “for you are fair and just and generous and strong.” That provoked wild applause from the crowd gathered about the fire.
“This is treason!” Beocca hissed.
“Be quiet,” I told him.
“But Alfred told us…”
“Alfred is not here,” I said, “and we are, so be quiet.”
Ragnar gazed into the fire. He was such a good-looking man, so strong-faced, so open-faced and cheerful, yet at that moment he was troubled. He looked at me. “You could be king,” he said.
“I could,” I agreed.
“We are here to support Guthred!” Beocca yapped.
“Finan,” I said, “beside me is a squint-eyed, club-footed, palsied priest who is irritating me. If he speaks again, cut his throat.”
“Uhtred!” Beocca squeaked.
“I shall allow him that one utterance,” I told Finan, “but the next time he speaks you will send him to his forefathers.”
Finan grinned and drew his sword. Beocca went silent.
“You could be king,” Ragnar said to me again, and I was aware of Brida’s dark eyes resting on me.
“My ancestors were kings,” I said, “and their blood is in me. It is the blood of Odin.” My father, though a Christian, had always been proud that our family was descended from the god Odin.
“And you would be a good king,” Ragnar said. “It is better that a Saxon rules, and you are a Saxon who loves the Danes. You could be King Uhtred of Northumbria, and why not?” Brida still watched me. I knew she was remembering the night when Ragnar’s father had died, and when Kjartan and his yelling crew had cut down the men and women stumbling from the burning hall. “Well?” Ragnar prompted me.
I was tempted. I confess I was very tempted. In their day my family had been kings of Bernicia and now the throne of Northumbria was there for the taking. With Ragnar beside me I could be sure of Danish support, and the Saxons would do what they were told. Ivarr would resist, of course, as would Kjartan and my uncle, but that was nothing new and I was certain I was a better soldier than Guthred.
And yet I knew it was not my fate to be king. I have known many kings and their lives are not all silver, feasting, and women. Alfred looked worn out by his duties, though part of that was his constant sickness and another part an inability to take his duties lightly. Yet Alfred was right in that dedication to duty. A king has to rule, he has to keep a balance between the great thegns of his kingdom, he has to fend off rivals, he has to keep the treasury full, he has to maintain roads and fortresses and armies. I thought of all that while Ragnar and Brida stared at me and while Beocca held his breath beside me, and I knew I did not want the responsibility. I wanted the silver, the feasting, and the women, but those I could have without a throne. “It is not my fate,” I said.
“Maybe you don’t know your fate,” Ragnar suggested.
The smoke whirled into the cold sky that was bright with sparks. “My fate,” I said, “is to be the ruler of Bebbanburg. I know that. And I know Northumbria cannot be ruled from Bebbanburg. But perhaps it is your fate,” I said to Ragnar.
He shook his head. “My father,” he said, “and his father, and his father before him, were all Vikings. We sailed to where we could take wealth. We grew rich. We had laughter, ale, silver, and battle. If I were to be king then I would have to protect what I have from the men who would take it from me. Instead of being a Viking I would be a shepherd. I want to be free. I have been a hostage too long, and I want my freedom. I want my sails in the wind and my swords in the sun. I do not wish to be heaped with duties.” He had been thinking what I had been thinking, though he had said it far more eloquently. He grinned suddenly, as if released from a burden. “I wish to be richer than any king,” he declared to his men, “and I will make you all rich with me.”
“So who is to be king?” Rollo asked.
“Guthred,” Ragnar said.
“Praise God,” Beocca said.
“Quiet,” I hissed.
Ragnar’s men were not happy with his choice. Rollo, gaunt and bearded and loyal, spoke for them. “Guthred favors the Christians,” he said. “He is more Saxon than Dane. He would make us all worship their nailed god.”
