“So tomorrow I ride with you,” she said.
“Your husband will forbid it,” I answered.
“Of course he will,” she said calmly, “but my husband won’t know. And you will do me a service, Lord Uhtred.”
“I am ever at your service, my lady,” I said, too lightly.
“Are you?” she asked, turning to look up into my eyes.
I looked at her sad lovely face, and knew her question was serious. “Yes, my lady,” I said gently.
“Then tomorrow,” she said bitterly, “kill them all. Kill all the Danes. Do that for me, Lord Uhtred,” she touched my hand with the tips of her fingers, “kill them all.”
She had loved a Dane and she had lost him to a blade, and now she would kill them all.
There are three spinners at the root of Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life, and they weave our threads, and those spinners had made a skein of purest gold for ?thelfl?d’s life, but in those years they wove that bright thread into a much darker cloth. The three spinners see our future. The gift of the gods to humankind is that we cannot see where the threads will go.
I heard songs from the Danes camped across the river.
And tomorrow I would draw them to the old hill by the river. And there kill them.
FOUR
Next day was a Thursday, Thor’s Day, which I took as a good omen. Alfred had once proposed renaming the days of the week, suggesting the Thursday become Maryday, or perhaps it was Haligastday, but the idea had faded like dew under the summer sun. In Christian Wessex, whether its king liked it or not, Tyr, Odin, Thor, and Frigg were still remembered each week.
And on that Thor’s Day I was taking two hundred warriors to Fearnhamme, though more than six hundred horsemen gathered in the burh’s long street before the sun rose. There was the usual chaos. Stirrup leathers broke and men tried to find replacements, children darted between the big horses, swords were given a last sharpening, the smoke of cooking fires drifted between the houses like fog, the church bell clanged, monks chanted, and I stood on the ramparts and watched the river’s far bank.
The Danes who had crossed to our bank the previous day had gone back before nightfall. I could see smoke from their fires rising among the trees, but the only visible enemy was a pair of sentries crouching at the river’s edge. For a moment I was tempted to abandon everything I had planned and instead lead the six hundred men across the river and let them rampage through Harald’s camp, but it was only a fleeting temptation. I assumed most of his men were in Godelmingum, and they would be well awake by the time we reached them. A swirling battle might result, but the Danes would inevitably realize their advantage in numbers and grind us to bloody shreds. I wanted to keep my promise to ?thelfl?d. I wanted to kill them all.
I made my first move when the sun rose, and I made it loudly. Horns were sounded inside ?scengum, then the northern gate was dragged open, and four hundred horsemen streamed into the fields beyond. The first riders gathered at the river bank, in clear view of the Danes, and waited while the rest of the men filed through the gate. Once all four hundred were gathered they turned west and spurred away through the trees toward the road that would eventually lead to Wintanceaster. I was still on the ramparts from where I watched the Danes gather to stare at the commotion on our bank, and I did not doubt that messengers were galloping to find Harald and inform him that the Saxon army was retreating.
Except we were not retreating because, once among the trees, the four hundred men doubled back and reentered ?scengum by the western gate, which was out of the enemy’s sight. It was then that I went down to the main street and hauled myself into Smoka’s saddle. I was dressed for war in mail, gold, and steel. Alfred appeared at the church door, his eyes half closing against the sudden sunlight as he came from the holy gloom. He returned my greeting with a nod, but said nothing. ?thelred, my cousin, was noisier, demanding to know where his wife was. I heard a servant report that ?thelfl?d was at prayer in the nunnery, and that seemed to satisfy ?thelred, who assured me loudly that his Mercian troops would be waiting at Fearnhamme. “Aldhelm’s a good man,” he said, “he likes a fight.”
“I’m glad of it,” I said, pretending friendship with my cousin, just as ?thelred was pretending that Aldhelm had not been given secret instructions to retreat northward if he took fright at the numbers opposing him. I even held my hand down from Smoka’s high saddle. “We shall win a great victory, Lord ?thelred,” I said loudly.
?thelred seemed momentarily astonished by my apparent affability, but clasped my hand anyway. “With God’s help, cousin,” he said, “with God’s help.”
“I pray for that,” I answered. The king gave me a suspicious look, but I just smiled cheerfully. “Bring the troops when you think best,” I called to Alfred’s son, Edward, “and always take Lord ?thelred’s advice.”
Edward looked to his father for some guidance on what he should reply, but received none. He nodded nervously. “I shall, Lord Uhtred,” he said, “and God go with you!”
God might go with me, but ?thelred would not. He had chosen to ride with the West Saxon troops who would follow the Danes, and thus be part of the hammer that would shatter Harald’s forces on the anvil of his Mercian warriors. I had half feared he would come with me, but it made sense for ?thelred to stay with his father- in-law. That way, if Aldhelm chose to retreat, ?thelred could not be blamed. I suspected there was another reason. When Alfred died, Edward would be named king unless the witan wanted an older and more experienced man, and ?thelred doubtless believed he would gain more renown by fighting with the West Saxons this day.
I pulled on my wolf-crested helmet and nudged Smoka toward Steapa who, grim in mail and hung with weapons, waited beside a smithy. Charcoal smoke sifted from the door. I leaned down and slapped my friend’s helmet. “You know what to do?” I asked.
“Tell me one more time,” he growled, “and I’ll rip your liver out and cook it.”
I grinned. “I’ll see you tonight,” I said. I was pretending that Edward commanded the West Saxons, and that ?thelred was his chief adviser, but in truth I trusted Steapa to make the day go as I had planned. I wanted Steapa to choose the moment when the seven hundred warriors left ?scengum to pursue Harald’s men. If they left too soon Harald could turn and cut them to ribbons, while leaving too late would mean my seven hundred troops would be slaughtered at Fearnhamme. “We’re going to make a famous victory this day,” I told Steapa.
“If God wills it, lord,” he said.
“If you and I will it,” I said happily, then leaned down and took my heavy linden shield from a servant. I hung the shield on my back, then spurred Smoka to the northern gate where Alfred’s gaudy wagon waited behind a team of six horses. We had harnessed horses to the cumbersome cart because they were faster than oxen. Osferth, looking miserable, was the wagon’s only passenger. He was dressed in a bright blue cloak and wearing a circlet of bronze on his head. The Danes did not know that Alfred eschewed most symbols of kingship. They expected a king to wear a crown and so I had ordered Osferth to wear the polished bauble. I had also persuaded Abbot Oslac to give me two of his monastery’s less valuable reliquaries. One, a silver box molded with pictures of saints and studded with stones of jet and amber, had held the toe bones of Saint Cedd, but now contained some pebbles which would puzzle the Danes if, as I hoped, they captured the wagon. The second reliquary, also of silver, had a pigeon feather inside, because Alfred famously traveled nowhere without the feather that had been plucked from the dove Noah had released from the ark. Besides the reliquaries we had also put an iron-bound wooden chest in the wagon. The chest was half filled with silver and we would probably lose it, but I expected to gain far more. Abbot Oslac, wearing a mail coat beneath his monkish robes, had insisted on accompanying my two hundred men. A shield hung at his left side and a monstrous war ax was strapped to his broad back. “That looks well used,” I greeted him, noting the nicks in the ax’s wide blade.
“It’s sent many a pagan to hell, Lord Uhtred,” he answered happily.
I grinned and spurred to the gate where Father Beocca, my old and stern friend, waited to bless us. “God go with you,” he said as I reached him.
I smiled down at him. He was lame, white-haired, cross-eyed, and clubfooted. He was also one of the best men I knew, though he mightily disapproved of me. “Pray for me, father,” I said.
“I never cease,” Beocca said.
