“He will do what he’s told to do,” I said firmly, “and the first thing we tell him is that no Dane will pay a tithe to their church. He will be a king like Egbert was king, obedient to Danish wishes.” Beocca was spluttering, but I ignored him. “What matters,” I went on, “is which Dane gives him his orders. Is it to be Ivarr? Kjartan? Or Ragnar?”
“Ragnar!” men shouted.
“And my wish,” Ragnar had moved closer to the fire so that the flames illuminated him and made him look bigger and stronger, “my wish,” he said again, “is to see Kjartan defeated. If Ivarr beats Guthred then Kjartan will grow stronger, and Kjartan is my enemy. He is our enemy. There is a bloodfeud between his family and mine, and I would end that feud now. We march to help Guthred, but if Guthred does not assist us in taking Dunholm then I swear to you that I shall kill Guthred and all his folk and take the throne. But I would rather stand in Kjartan’s blood than be king of all the Danes. I would rather be the slayer of Kjartan than be king of all the earth. My quarrel is not with Guthred. It is not with the Saxons. It is not with the Christians. My quarrel is with Kjartan the Cruel.”
“And in Dunholm,” I said, “there is a hoard of silver worthy of the gods.”
“So we will find Guthred,” Ragnar announced, “and we shall fight for him!”
A moment before, the crowd had wanted Ragnar to lead them against Guthred, but now they cheered the news that they were to fight for the king. There were seventy warriors there, not many, but they were among the best in Northumbria and they thumped swords against shields and shouted Ragnar’s name.
“You can speak now,” I told Beocca.
But he had nothing to say.
And next dawn, under a clear sky, we rode to find Guthred.
And Gisela.
PART THREE
SHADOW-WALKER
EIGHT
We were seventy-six warriors, including Steapa and myself. All of us were on horseback and all had weapons, mail or good leather, and helmets. Two score of servants on smaller horses carried the shields and led our spare stallions, but those servants were not fighting men and were not counted among the seventy-six. There had been a time when Ragnar could raise over two hundred warriors, but many had died at Ethandun and others had found new lords in the long months while Ragnar was a hostage, but seventy-six was still a good number. “And they’re formidable men,” he told me proudly.
He rode under his banner of an eagle’s wing. It was a real eagle’s wing nailed to the top of a high pole, and his helmet was decorated with two more such wings. “I dreamed of this,” he told me as we rode eastward, “I dreamed of riding to war. All that time I was a hostage I wanted to be riding to war. There’s nothing in life like it, Uhtred, nothing!”
“Women?” I asked.
“Women and war!” he said, “women and war!” He whooped for joy and his stallion pricked back its ears and took a few short, high steps as if it shared its master’s happiness. We rode at the front of the column, though Ragnar had a dozen men mounted on light ponies ranging far ahead of us. The dozen men signaled to each other and back to Ragnar, and they spoke to shepherds and listened to rumor and smelt the wind. They were like hounds seeking scent, and they looked for Guthred’s trail, which we expected to find leading west toward Cumbraland, but as the morning wore on the scouts kept tending eastward. Our progress was slow, which frustrated Father Beocca, but before we could ride fast we had to know where we were going. Then, at last, the scouts seemed confident that the trail led east and spurred their ponies across the hills and we followed. “Guthred’s trying to go back to Eoferwic,” Ragnar guessed.
“He’s too late for that,” I said.
“Or else he’s panicking,” Ragnar suggested cheerfully, “and doesn’t know what he’s doing.”
“That sounds more likely,” I said.
Brida and some twenty other women rode with us. Brida was in leather armor and had a black cloak held at her neck with a fine brooch of silver and jet. Her hair was twisted high and held in place with a black ribbon, and at her side was a long sword. She had grown into an elegant woman who possessed an air of authority and that, I think, offended Father Beocca who had known her since she was a child. She had been raised a Christian, but had escaped the faith and Beocca was upset by that, though I think he found her beauty more disturbing. “She’s a sorceress,” Beocca hissed at me.
“If she’s a sorceress,” I said, “then she’s a good person to have on your side.”
“God will punish us,” he warned.
“This isn’t your god’s country,” I told him. “This is Thor’s land.”
He made the sign of the cross to protect himself from the evil of my words. “And what were you doing last night?” he asked indignantly. “How could you even think of being king here?”
“Easily,” I said. “I am descended from kings. Unlike you, father. You’re descended from swineherds, aren’t you?”
He ignored that. “The king is the Lord’s anointed,” he insisted. “The king is chosen by God and by all the throng of holy saints. Saint Cuthbert led Northumbria to Guthred, so how could you even think of replacing him? How could you?”
“We can turn around and go home then,” I said.
“Turn around and go home?” Beocca was appalled. “Why?”
“Because if Cuthbert chose him,” I said, “then Cuthbert can defend him. Guthred doesn’t need us. He can go into battle with his dead saint. Or maybe he already has,” I said, “have you thought of that?”
“Thought of what?”
“That Guthred might already be defeated. He could be dead. Or he could be wearing Kjartan’s chains.”
“God preserve us,” Beocca said, making the sign of the cross again.
“It hasn’t happened,” I assured him.
“How do you know?”
“Because we’d have met his fugitives by now,” I said, though I could not be certain of that. Perhaps Guthred was fighting even as we spoke, but I had a feeling he was alive and not too far away. It is hard to describe that feeling. It is an instinct, as hard to read as a god’s message in the fall of a wren’s feather, but I had learned to trust the feeling.
And my instinct was right, for late in the morning one of the scouts came racing back across the moorland with his pony’s mane tossing in the wind. He slewed around in a burst of turf and bracken to tell Ragnar that there was a large band of men and horses in the valley of the River Swale. “They’re at Cetreht, lord,” he said.
“On our side of the river?” Ragnar asked.
“On our side, lord,” the scout said, “in the old fort. Trapped there.”
“Trapped?”
“There’s another war-band outside the fort, lord,” the scout said. He had not ridden close enough to see any banners, but two other scouts had ridden down into the valley while this first galloped back to bring us the news that Guthred was probably very near.
We quickened our pace. Clouds raced in the wind and at midday a sharp rain fell briefly, and just after it ended we met the two scouts who had ridden down to the fields outside the fort and spoken to the war-band. “Guthred’s in the fort,” one of them reported.
“So who’s outside?”
“Kjartan’s men, lord,” the man said. He grinned, knowing that if any of Kjartan’s men were close then there would be a fight. “There are sixty of them, lord. Only sixty.”
“Is Kjartan there? Or Sven?”
“No, lord. They’re led by a man called Rolf.”
“You spoke to him?”
“Spoke to him and drank his ale, lord. They’re watching Guthred. Making sure he doesn’t run away. They’re keeping him there until Ivarr comes north.”
“Till Ivarr comes?” Ragnar asked. “Not Kjartan?”
