It was time, then, for us to go. Guthred and I were already in mail, our horses were saddled, and all we needed to do was ride south to join Ragnar’s shield wall, but Guthred had been unnerved by the loss of the relic. As we left the church he took me aside. “Will you ask Ragnar if he took it?” he begged me. “Or ask if perhaps one of his men did?”
“Ragnar didn’t take it,” I said scornfully. “If you want to find the culprit,” I went on, “search them.” I pointed to Aidan and his horsemen who, now that Ivarr was close, were eager to start on their journey north, though they dared not leave so long as Ivarr’s men barred the ford across the Swale. Guthred had asked them to join our shield wall, but they had refused, and now they waited for a chance to escape.
“No Christian would steal the relic!” Hrothweard shouted. “It’s a pagan crime!”
Guthred was terrified. He still believed in Christian magic and he saw the theft as an omen of disaster. He plainly did not suspect Aidan, but then he did not know who to suspect and so I made it easy for him.
I summoned Finan and Sihtric who were waiting to accompany me to the shield wall. “This man,” I told Guthred, pointing at Finan, “is a Christian. Aren’t you a Christian, Finan?”
“I am, lord.”
“And he’s Irish,” I said, “and everyone knows the Irish have the power of scrying.” Finan, who had no more powers of scrying than I did, tried to look mysterious. “He will find your relic,” I promised.
“You will?” Guthred asked Finan eagerly.
“Yes, lord,” Finan said confidently.
“Do it, Finan,” I said, “while I kill Ivarr. And bring the culprit to us as soon as you find him.”
“I will, lord,” he said.
A servant brought my horse. “Can your Irishman really find it?” Guthred asked me.
“I will give the church all my silver, lord,” I said loudly enough for a dozen men to hear, “and I will give it my mail, my helmet, my arm rings and my swords, if Finan does not bring you both the relic and the thief. He’s Irish and the Irish have strange powers.” I looked at Hrothweard. “You hear that, priest? I promise all my wealth to your church if Finan does not find the thief!”
Hrothweard had nothing to say to that. He glared at me, but my promise had been made publicly and it was testimony to my innocence, so he contented himself by spitting at my horse’s feet. Gisela, who had come to take the stallion’s reins, had to skip aside to avoid the spittle. She touched my arm as I straightened the stirrup. “Can Finan find it?” she asked in a low voice.
“He can find it,” I promised her.
“Because he has strange powers?”
“Because he stole it, my love,” I said quietly, “on my orders. It’s probably hidden in a dung-heap.” I grinned at her, and she laughed softly.
I put my foot in the stirrup and readied to heave myself up, but again Gisela checked me. “Be careful,” she said. “Men fear to fight Ivarr,” she warned me.
“He’s a Lothbrok,” I said, “and all Lothbroks fight well. They love it. But they fight like mad dogs, all fury and savagery, and in the end they die like mad dogs.” I mounted the stallion, settled my right foot in its stirrup, then took my helmet and shield from Gisela. I touched her hand for farewell, then pulled the reins and followed Guthred south.
We rode to join the shield wall. It was a short wall, easily out-flanked by the much larger wall that Ivarr was forming to the south. His wall was over twice as long as ours which meant his men could wrap themselves about our line and kill us from the edges inward. If it came to battle we would be slaughtered, and Ivarr’s men knew it. Their shield wall was bright with spears and ax-heads, and noisy with anticipation of victory. They were beating their weapons against their shields, making a dull drumbeat that filled the Swale’s wide valley, and the drumbeat rose to a great clattering thunder when Ivarr’s standard of the two ravens was lifted in the center of their line. Beneath the banner was a knot of horsemen who now broke free of the shield wall to ride toward us. Ivarr was among them, as was his rat-like son.
Guthred, Steapa, Ragnar, and I rode a few paces toward Ivarr and then waited. Ten men were in the approaching party, but it was Ivarr I watched. He was mounted on Witnere, which I had hoped he would be, for that gave me cause to quarrel with him, but I hung back, letting Guthred take his horse a few steps forward. Ivarr was staring at us one by one. He looked momentarily surprised to see me, but said nothing, and he seemed irritated when he saw Ragnar and he was duly impressed by Steapa’s huge size, but he ignored the three of us, nodding instead at Guthred. “Worm-shit,” he greeted the king.
“Lord Ivarr,” Guthred replied.
“I am in a strangely merciful mood,” Ivarr said. “If you ride away, then I shall spare your men’s lives.”
“We have no quarrel,” Guthred said, “that cannot be settled by words.”
“Words!” Ivarr spat, then shook his head. “Go beyond Northumbria,” he said, “go far away, worm-shit. Run to your friend in Wessex, but leave your sister here as a hostage. If you do that I shall be merciful.” He was not being merciful, but practical. The Danes were ferocious warriors, but far more cautious than their reputation suggested. Ivarr was willing to fight, but he was more willing to arrange a surrender, for then he would lose no men. He would win this fight, he knew that, but in gaining the victory he would lose sixty or seventy warriors and that was a whole ship’s crew and a high price to pay. It was better to let Guthred live and pay nothing. Ivarr moved Witnere sideways so he could look past Guthred at Ragnar. “You keep strange company, Lord Ragnar.”
“Two days ago,” Ragnar said, “I killed Kjartan the Cruel. Dunholm is mine now. I think, perhaps, I should kill you, Lord Ivarr, so that you cannot try to take it from me.”
Ivarr looked startled, as well he might. He glanced at Guthred, then at me, as if seeking confirmation of Kjartan’s death, but our faces betrayed nothing. Ivarr shrugged. “You had a quarrel with Kjartan,” he told Ragnar, “and that was your affair, not mine. I would welcome you as a friend. Our fathers were friends, were they not?”
“They were,” Ragnar said.
“Then we should remake their friendship,” Ivarr said.
“Why should he befriend a thief?” I asked.
Ivarr looked at me, his serpent eyes unreadable. “I watched a goat vomit yesterday,” he said, “and what it threw up reminded me of you.”
“I watched a goat shit yesterday,” I retorted, “and what it dropped reminded me of you.”
Ivarr sneered at that, but decided not to go on trading insults. His son, though, drew his sword and Ivarr held out a warning hand to tell the youngster that the killing time had not yet come. “Go away,” he said to Guthred, “go far away and I will forget I ever knew you.”
“The goat-turd reminded me of you,” I said, “but its smell reminded me of your mother. It was a rancid smell, but what would you expect of a whore who gives birth to a thief?”
One of the warriors held Ivarr’s son back. Ivarr himself just looked at me in silence for a while. “I can make your death stretch through three sunsets,” he said at last.
“But if you return the stolen goods, thief,” I said, “and then accept good King Guthred’s judgment on your crime, then perhaps we will show mercy.”
Ivarr looked amused rather than offended. “What have I stolen?” he asked.
“You’re riding my horse,” I said, “and I want it back now.”
He patted Witnere’s neck. “When you are dead,” he said to me, “I shall have your skin tanned and made into a saddle so I can spend the rest of my life farting on you.” He looked at Guthred. “Go away,” he said, “go far away. Leave your sister as hostage. I shall give you a few moments to find your senses, and if you don’t, then we shall kill you.” He turned his horse away.
“Coward,” I called to him. He ignored me, pushing Witnere through his men to lead them back to their shield wall. “All the Lothbroks are cowards,” I said. “They run away. What have you done, Ivarr? Pissed your breeches for fear of my sword? You ran away from the Scots and now you run away from me!”
I think it was the mention of the Scots that did it. That huge defeat was still raw in Ivarr’s memory, and I had scraped scorn on the rawness and suddenly the Lothbrok temper, that so far he had managed to control, took over. He hurt Witnere with the savage pull he gave on the bit, but Witnere turned obediently as Ivarr drew his long sword. He spurred toward me, but I angled past him, going toward the wide space in front of his army. That was where I wanted Ivarr to die, in sight of all his men, and there I turned my stallion back. Ivarr had followed me, but had checked Witnere, who was thumping the soft turf with his front right hoof.
