servant led a packhorse which carried four big altar crosses taken from Kjartan’s hoard. Beocca had demanded they be returned to the church, and none of us could deny him for he had proved himself as great a hero as any of us, and now he leaned toward Thyra, spoke urgently, and she listened.
“She’ll be a Christian within a week,” Gisela said to me.
“Sooner,” I said.
“So what happens to her?” she asked.
I shrugged. “He’ll talk her into a nunnery, I suppose.”
“Poor woman.”
“At least she’ll learn obedience there,” I said. “She won’t make twelve into thirteen.”
Gisela punched my arm, thus hurting herself instead of me. “I swore,” she said, rubbing her knuckles where they had scraped against my mail, “that once I found you again I would not leave you. Not ever.”
“But thirteen?” I asked her. “How could you do that?”
“Because I knew the gods were with us,” she said simply. “I cast the runesticks.”
“And what do the runesticks say of Ivarr?” I asked.
“That he will die like a snake under a hoe,” she said grimly, then flinched as a gobbet of mud, thrown up by a hoof of Steapa’s horse, spattered onto her face. She wiped it off, then frowned at me. “Must we go to Wessex?”
“I swore as much to Alfred.”
“You swore?”
“I gave him my oath.”
“Then we must go to Wessex,” she said without enthusiasm. “Do you like Wessex?”
“No.”
“Alfred?”
“No.”
“Why not?”
“He’s too pious,” I said, “and he’s too earnest. And he stinks.”
“All Saxons stink,” she said.
“He stinks worse than most. It’s his illness. It makes him shit all the time.”
She grimaced. “Doesn’t he wash?”
“At least once a month,” I said, “and probably more often. He’s very fastidious about washing, but he still stinks. Do I stink?”
“Like a boar,” she said, grinning. “Will I like Alfred?”
“No. He won’t approve of you because you’re not a Christian.”
She laughed at that. “What will he do with you?”
“He’ll give me land,” I said, “and expect me to fight for him.”
“Which means you’ll fight the Danes?”
“The Danes are Alfred’s enemies,” I said, “so yes. I’ll fight the Danes.”
“But they’re my people,” she said.
“And I’ve given Alfred my oath,” I said, “so I must do what he wants.” I leaned back as the stallion picked its way down a steep hill. “I love the Danes,” I said, “love them far more than I do the West Saxons, but it’s my fate to fight for Wessex. Wyrd biful ar?d.”
“Which means?”
“That fate is fate. That it rules us.”
She thought about that. She was dressed in her mail again, but around her neck was a golden torc taken from Kjartan’s treasures. It was made from seven strands twisted into one and I had seen similar things dug from the graves of ancient British chieftains. It gave her a wild look, which suited her. Her black hair was pinned under a woolen cap and she had a faraway look on her long face, and I thought I could look at that face forever. “So how long must you be Alfred’s man?”
“Until he releases me,” I said, “or until either he or I die.”
“But you say he’s sick. So how long can he live?”
“Probably not very long.”
“So who becomes king then?”
“I don’t know,” I said, and I wished I did. Alfred’s son, Edward, was a mewling child, much too young to rule, and his nephew, ?thelwold, from whom Alfred had usurped the throne, was a drunken fool. The drunken fool had the better claim to the throne, and I suddenly found myself hoping that Alfred would live long. That did surprise me. I had told Gisela the truth, that I did not like Alfred, but I recognized that he was the true power in the island of Britain. No one else had his vision, no one else had his determination, and Kjartan’s death was not so much our doing, but Alfred’s. He had sent us north, knowing we would do what he wanted even though he had not explicitly told us what that was, and I was struck by the thought that life as his oath-man might not be as dull as I had feared. But if he died soon, I thought, then that would be the end of Wessex. The thegns would fight for his crown and the Danes would scent the weakness and come like ravens to pluck the corpse-meat.
“If you’re Alfred’s sworn man,” Gisela asked carefully, and her question revealed that she must have been thinking the same thoughts, “why did he let you come here?”
“Because he wants your brother to rule in Northumbria.”
She thought about that. “Because Guthred is a Christian of sorts?”
“That’s important to Alfred,” I said.
“Or because Guthred’s weak?” she suggested.
“Is he weak?”
“You know he is,” she said scornfully. “He’s a kind man, and folk have always liked him, but he doesn’t know how to be ruthless. He should have killed Ivarr when he first met him, and he should have banished Hrothweard a long time ago, but he didn’t dare. He’s too frightened of Saint Cuthbert.”
“And why would Alfred want a weak king on Northumbria’s throne?” I asked blandly.
“So Northumbria will be weak,” she said, “when the Saxons try to take back their land.”
“Is that what your runesticks say will happen?” I asked.
“They say,” she said, “that we will have two sons and a daughter, and that one son will break your heart, the other will make you proud, and that your daughter will be the mother of kings.”
I laughed at that prophecy, not with scorn, but because of the certainty in Gisela’s voice. “And does that mean,” I asked, “that you will come to Wessex, even though I fight the Danes?”
“It means,” she said, “that I’m not leaving your side. That’s my oath.”
Ragnar had sent scouts ahead and as the long day passed some of those men came back on tired horses. Ivarr, they had heard, had taken Eoferwic. It had been easy for him. Guthred’s diminished garrison had surrendered the city rather than be slaughtered in its streets. Ivarr had taken what plunder he could find, placed a new garrison on the walls, and was already marching back north. He would not have heard of the fall of Dunholm yet, so he was plainly hoping to catch Guthred who, he must assume, either lingered at Cetreht or was wandering disconsolately toward the wastes of Cumbraland. Ivarr’s army, the scouts had heard, was a horde. Some men said Ivarr led two thousand spears, a figure that Ragnar and I dismissed. It was certain, though, that Ivarr’s men far outnumbered ours and probable that he was marching north on the same Roman road down which we traveled south. “Can we fight him?” Guthred asked me.
“We can fight him,” Ragnar answered for me, “but we can’t beat his army.”
“So why are we marching south?”
“To rescue Cuthbert,” I said, “and to kill Ivarr.”
“But if we can’t beat him?” Guthred was puzzled.
“We fight him,” I said, adding to his confusion, “and if we can’t beat him then we retreat to Dunholm. That’s why we captured it, as a refuge.”
“We’re letting the gods decide what happens,” Ragnar explained and, because we were confident, Guthred pressed us no further.
We reached Cetreht that evening. Our journey had been fast because we had no need to leave the Roman road, and we splashed through the Swale’s ford as the sun reddened the western hills. The churchmen, rather than take refuge in those hills, had preferred to stay with Cetreht’s meager comforts and no one had disturbed them
