“I would be delighted to hear his message,” Guthred said politely.
“The book represents learning,” Beocca said, “for without learning a kingdom is a mere husk of ignorant barbarism. The sword is the instrument by which we defend learning and protect God’s earthly kingdom, and its crystal stands for the inner eye which permits us to discover our Savior’s will. And the hairs of the holy Augustine’s beard, lord King, remind us that without God we are nothing, and that without the holy church we are as chaff in the wind. And Alfred of Wessex wishes you a long and learned life, a Godly rule, and a safe kingdom.” He bowed.
Guthred made a speech of thanks, but it ended plaintively. Would Alfred of Wessex send Northumbria help?
“Help?” Beocca asked, not sure how else to respond.
“I need spears,” Guthred said, though how he thought he could last long enough for any West Saxon troops to reach him was a mystery.
“He sent me,” I said in answer.
“Murderer!” Hrothweard spat. He would not give up.
“He sent me,” I said again, and I let go of Gisela’s hand and went to join Beocca and Steapa in the nave’s center. Beocca was making small flapping motions as if to tell me to go away and keep quiet, but Guthred wanted to hear me. “Over two years ago,” I reminded Guthred, “?lfric became your ally and my freedom was the price for that alliance. He promised you he would destroy Dunholm, yet I hear Dunholm still stands and that Kjartan still lives. So much for ?lfric’s promise. And yet you would put your faith in him again? You think that if you give him your sister and a dead saint that ?lfric will fight for you?”
“Murderer,” Hrothweard hissed.
“Bebbanburg is still two days’ march away,” I said, “and to get there you need the Earl Ragnar’s help. But the Earl Ragnar is my friend, not yours. He has never betrayed me.”
Guthred’s face jerked at the mention of betrayal.
“We don’t need pagan Danes,” Hrothweard hissed at Guthred. “We must rededicate ourselves to God, lord King, here in the River Jordan, and God will see us safe through Kjartan’s land!”
“The Jordan?” Ragnar asked behind me. “Where’s that?”
I thought the River Jordan was in the Christians’ holy land, but it seemed it was here, in Northumbria. “The River Swale,” Hrothweard was shouting as if he addressed a congregation of hundreds, “was where the blessed Saint Paulinus baptized Edwin, our country’s first Christian king. Thousands of folk were baptized here. This is our holy river! Our Jordan! If we dip our swords and spears in the Swale, then God will bless them. We cannot be defeated!”
“Without Earl Ragnar,” I told Hrothweard scornfully, “Kjartan will tear you to pieces. And Earl Ragnar,” I looked at Guthred again, “is my friend, not yours.”
Guthred took his wife’s hand, then summoned the courage to look me in the eye. “What would you do, Lord Uhtred?”
My enemies, and there were plenty of those in that church, noted that he called me Lord Uhtred and there was a shudder of distaste. I stepped forward. “It’s easy, lord,” I said, and I had not known what I was going to say, but suddenly it came to me. The three spinners were either playing a joke, or else they had given me a fate as golden as Guthred’s, for suddenly it did all seem easy.
“Easy?” Guthred asked.
“Ivarr has gone to Eoferwic, lord,” I said, “and Kjartan has sent men to stop you reaching Bebbanburg. What they are trying to do, lord, is to keep you a fugitive. They will take your fortresses, capture your palace, destroy your Saxon supporters, and when you have nowhere to hide they will take you and they will kill you.”
“So?” Guthred asked plaintively. “What do we do?”
“We place ourselves, lord, in a fortress, of course. In a place of safety.”
“Where?” he asked.
“Dunholm,” I said, “where else?”
He just stared at me. No one else spoke. Even the churchmen, who only a moment before had been howling for my death, were silent. And I was thinking of Alfred, and how, in that dreadful winter when all Wessex seemed doomed, he had not thought of mere survival, but of victory.
“If we march at dawn,” I said, “and march fast, then in two days we shall take Dunholm.”
“You can do that?” Guthred asked.
“No, lord,” I said, “we can do it.” Though how, I had not the slightest idea. All I knew was that we were few and the enemy numerous, and that so far Guthred had been like a mouse in that enemy’s paws, and it was time that we fought back. And Dunholm, because Kjartan had sent so many men to guard the Bebbanburg approaches, was as weak as it was ever likely to be.
“We can do it,” Ragnar said. He came to stand beside me.
“Then we shall,” Guthred said, and that was how it was decided.
The priests did not like the notion that I would live unpunished, and they liked it even less when Guthred brushed their complaints away and asked me to go with him to the small house that were his quarters. Gisela came too and she sat against the wall and watched the two of us. A small fire burned. It was cold that afternoon, the first cold of the coming winter.
Guthred was embarrassed to find himself with me. He half smiled. “I am sorry,” he said haltingly.
“You’re a bastard,” I said.
“Uhtred,” he began, but could find nothing more to say.
“You’re a piece of weasel-shit,” I said, “you’re an earsling.”
“I’m a king,” he said, trying to regain his dignity.
“So you’re a royal piece of weasel-shit. An earsling on a throne.”
“I,” he said and still could find nothing more to say, so instead he sat on the only chair in the room and gave a shrug.
“But you did the right thing,” I told him.
“I did?” he brightened.
“But it didn’t work, did it? You were supposed to sacrifice me to get ?lfric’s troops on your side. You were supposed to crush Kjartan like a louse, but he’s still there, and ?lfric calls himself Lord of Bernicia, and you’ve got a Danish rebellion on your hands. And for that I slaved at an oar for over two years?” He said nothing. I unbuckled my sword belt and then tugged the heavy mail coat over my head and let it collapse on the floor. Guthred was puzzled as he watched me pull the tunic off my left shoulder, then I showed him the slave scar that Hakka had carved into my upper arm. “You know what that is?” I asked. He shook his head. “A slave mark, lord King. You don’t have one?”
“No,” he said.
“I took it for you,” I said. “I took it so you could be king here, but instead you’re a priest-ridden fugitive. I told you to kill Ivarr long ago.”
“I should have done,” he admitted.
“And you let that miserable piece of hairy gristle, Hrothweard, impose a tithe on the Danes?”
“It was for the shrine,” he said. “Hrothweard had a dream. He said Saint Cuthbert spoke to him.”
“Cuthbert’s talkative for a dead man, isn’t he? Why don’t you remember that you rule this land, not Saint Cuthbert?”
He looked miserable. “The Christian magic has always worked for me,” he said.
“It hasn’t worked,” I said scornfully. “Kjartan lives, Ivarr lives, and you face a revolt of the Danes. Forget your Christian magic. You’ve got me now, and you’ve got Earl Ragnar. He’s the best man in your kingdom. Look after him.”
“And you,” he said, “I shall look after you. I promise.”
“I am,” Gisela said.
“Because you’re going to be my brother-in-law,” I told Guthred.
He nodded at that, then gave me a wan smile. “She always said you’d come back.”
“And you thought I was dead?”
“I hoped you were not,” he said. Then he stood and smiled. “Would you believe me,” he asked, “if I said I missed you?”
