I got a sour look as the only reply.
“They’ll have seen us,” I said to Finan.
“They’ve been watching us for an hour, lord,” he said.
“They have?”
“I’ve been watching the glint from their spear-points,” the Irishman said. “They aren’t trying to hide from us.”
It was the beginning of a long summer’s evening as we climbed the hill. The air was warm and the slanting light was beautiful among the leaves that shrouded the slope. A road zig-zagged its way to the heights and, as we slowly climbed, I saw the splinters of light from high above and knew they were reflections from spear-points or helmets. Our enemies had been watching us and were ready for us.
There were just three horsemen waiting. All three were in mail, all wore helmets and the helmets had long horsehair plumes that made their wearers look savage. They had seen Sihtric’s alder branch and, as we neared the summit, the three men spurred toward us. I held up my hand to stop my troops and, accompanied only by Finan, rode to greet the three plumed riders.
“You come at last,” one of them called in heavily accented English.
“We come in peace,” I said in Danish.
The man laughed. I could not see his face because his helmet had cheek-pieces and all I could make out was his bearded mouth and the glint of his shadowed eyes. “You come in peace,” he said, “because you daren’t come any other way. Or do you want us to disembowel your king’s daughter after we’ve all rutted between her thighs?”
“I would speak with the Earl Sigefrid,” I said, ignoring his provocation.
“But does he want to speak with you?” the man asked. He touched a spur to his horse and the stallion turned prettily, not to any purpose, but merely to show off his rider’s skill in horsemanship. “And who are you?” he asked.
“Uhtred of Bebbanburg.”
“I’ve heard the name,” the man allowed.
“Then tell it to the Earl Sigefrid,” I said, “and say I bring him greetings from King Alfred.”
“I’ve heard that name too,” the man said. He paused, playing with our patience. “You may follow the road,” he finally said, pointing to where the track disappeared over the brow of the hill, “and you will come to a great stone. Beside the stone is a hall and that is where you and all your men will wait. Earl Sigefrid will inform you tomorrow if he wishes to speak with you, or whether he wishes you to leave, or whether he desires the amusement of your deaths.” He touched the spur to his horse’s flank again and all three men rode swiftly away, their hoofbeats loud in the still summer air.
And we rode on to find the hall beside the great stone.
The hall, very ancient, was made from oak that had turned almost black over the years. Its thatched roof was steep, and the building wasc surrounded by tall oaks that shielded it from the sun. In front of the hall, standing in a patch of rank grass, was a pillar of uncut stone taller than a man. The stone had a hole through it, and in the hole were pebbles and scraps of bone, tokens from the folk who believed that the boulder had magical properties. Finan made the sign of the cross. “The old people must have put it there,” he said.
“What old people?”
“The ones who lived here when the world was young,” he said, “the ones who came before us. They put such stones all across Ireland.” He eyed the stone warily and made his horse pass as far away from it as possible.
A single lame servant waited outside the hall. He was a Saxon and he said the place was named Thunresleam, and that name was old too. It meant Thor’s Grove and it told me that the hall must have been built in a place where the old Saxons, the Saxons who did not acknowledge the Christians’ nailed god, had worshipped their more ancient god, my god, Thor. I bent from Smoca’s saddle to touch the stone, and I sent a prayer to Thor that Gisela would survive childbirth and that ?thelflaed would be rescued. “There is food for you, lord,” the lame servant said, taking Smoca’s reins.
There was not just food and ale, there was a feast, and there were Saxon women slaves to prepare the feast and pour the ale, mead and birch wine. There was pork, beef, duck, dried cod and dried haddock, eels, crabs, and goose. There was bread, cheese, honey, and butter. Father Willibald feared the food might be poisoned and watched fearfully as I ate a leg of goose. “There,” I said, wiping the grease from my lips onto the back of my hand, “I’m still alive.”
“Praise God,” Willibald said, still watching me anxiously.
“Praise Thor,” I said, “this is his hill.”
Willibald made the sign of the cross, then gingerly speared his knife into a piece of duck. “I am told,” he said nervously, “that Sigefrid hates Christians.”
“He does. Especially priests.”
“Then why does he feed us so well?”
“To show that he despises us,” I said.
“Not to poison us?” Willibald asked, still worried.
“Eat,” I said, “enjoy.” I doubted the Northmen would poison us. They might want us dead, but not before they had humiliated us, yet even so I set a careful guard on the paths leading to the hall. I half feared that Sigefrid’s chosen humiliation would be to burn the hall at dead of night, with us sleeping inside. I had watched a hall-burning once, and it is a terrible thing. Warriors wait outside to drive the panicked occupants back into the inferno of falling, burning thatch in which folk scream before they die. Next morning, after the hall-burning, the victims had been small as little children, their corpses shrunken and blackened, their hands curled, and their burned lips drawn back from their teeth in a terrible and eternal scream of pain.
But no one tried to kill us in that short summer night. I stood guard for a time, listening to the owls, then watching as the sun rose through the thick tangle of trees. Some time later I heard a horn blowing. It made a mournful wail that was repeated three times, then sounded three times again, and I knew Sigefrid must be summoning his men. He would send for us soon, I thought, and I dressed carefully. I chose to wear my best mail, and my fine war helmet and, though the day promised to be warm, my black cloak with its lightning bolt streaking down the long back. I pulled on my boots and strapped on my swords. Steapa also wore mail, though his armor was dirty and tarnished, while his boots were scuffed and his scabbard-covering torn, yet somehow he looked much more fearsome than I did. Father Willibald was dressed in his black gown and carried a small bag, which contained a gospel book and the sacraments. “You will translate for me, won’t you?” he asked earnestly.
“Why didn’t Alfred send a priest who spoke Danish?” I asked.
“I do speak some!” Willibald said, “but not as much as I’d like. No, the king sent me because he thought I might be a comfort to the Lady ?thelflaed.”
“Make sure you are,” I said, then turned because Cerdic had come running down the track that led through the trees from the south.
“They’re coming, lord,” he said.
“How many?”
“Six, lord. Six horsemen.”
The six men rode into the clearing about the hall. They stopped and looked around them. Their helmet masks restricted their vision, forcing them to move their heads extravagantly in order to see our picketed horses. They were counting heads, making sure I had not sent a scouting party to explore the country. Finally, satisfied that no such party existed, their leader deigned to look at me. I thought he was the same man who had greeted us on the hilltop the previous day. “You alone must come,” he said, pointing at me.
“Three of us are coming,” I said.
“You alone,” he insisted.
“Then we leave for Lundene now,” I said, and turned. “Pack up! Saddles! Hurry! We’re going!”
The man made no fight of it. “Three, then,” he said carelessly, “but you do not ride to Earl Sigefrid’s presence. You walk.”
I made no fight of that. I knew it was part of Sigefrid’s purpose to humiliate us, and how better than to make us walk to his camp? Lords rode while common men walked, but Steapa, Father Willibald, and I meekly walked behind the six horsemen as they followed a track through the trees and out onto a wide grassy down that
