The Burning Land

TWO

I snatched open the tavern’s front door and saw more men waiting on the quay. They looked startled when I appeared, so startled that most took an involuntary step backward. There were at least fifty of them, a few armed with spears and swords, but most with axes, sickles, or staves, which suggested they were townsfolk roused by Guthlac for a night’s treacherous work, but, far more worryingly, a handful of them carried bows. They had made no attempt to capture Seolferwulf, which was lit at the pier’s end by the dull glow of the herring-driers’ fires that burned above the narrow beach’s high-water line. That small light reflected from the mail which Osferth and his men were wearing, and from the blades of their spears, swords, and axes. Osferth had made a shield wall across the pier, and it looked formidable.

I closed the door and dropped its locking bar into place. It seemed clear that Guthlac had no appetite for attacking Osferth’s men, which suggested he wanted to capture us first, then use us as hostages to take the ship.

“We have a fight on our hands,” I told our men. I slid Wasp-Sting from her hiding place and watched, amused, as other weapons appeared. They were mostly short-swords like Wasp-Sting, but Rorik, a Dane I had captured in one of the punitive raids on East Anglia and who had sworn an oath to me rather than go back to his old lord, had somehow managed to bring a war ax. “There are men that way,” I told them, pointing to the front door, “and that way,” I pointed toward the brewing house.

“How many, lord?” Cerdic asked.

“Too many,” I said. I had no doubt that we could fight our way to Seolferwulf because townsfolk armed with sickles and staves would prove easy foes for my trained warriors, but the archers outside the door could give my crew grievous casualties, and I was already shorthanded. The bows I had seen were short hunting bows, but their arrows were still lethal against men not wearing mail.

“If they’re too many, lord,” Finan suggested, “then best to attack them now rather than wait till there are more of them?”

“Or wait till they get tired,” I said, and just then a timid knock sounded on the tavern’s back door. I nodded to Sihtric, who unbarred the door and pulled it inward to reveal a sorry-looking creature, scrawny and frightened, dressed in a threadbare black robe over which hung a wooden cross that he clutched nervously. He bobbed his head at us. I had a glimpse of the armed men in the yard before the man edged into the tavern and Sihtric closed and barred the door behind him. “Are you a priest?” I demanded, and he nodded his head. “So Guthlac sends a priest,” I went on, “because he’s too frightened to show his face in here?”

“The reeve means you no harm, lord,” the priest said. He was a Dane, and that surprised me. I knew the Danes of East Anglia had converted to Christianity, but I had thought it a cynical conversion, done to appease the threat of Alfred’s Wessex, but some Danes, it seemed, truly had become Christians.

“What’s your name, priest?”

“Cuthbert, lord.”

I sneered. “You took a Christian name?”

“We do, lord, upon conversion,” he said nervously, “and Cuthbert, lord, was a most holy man.”

“I know who he is,” I said, “I’ve even seen his corpse. So if Guthlac means us no harm then we can go back to our ship?”

“Your men may, lord,” Father Cuthbert said very timidly, “so long as you and the woman stay, lord.”

“The woman?” I asked, pretending not to understand him, “you mean Guthlac wants me to stay with one of his whores?”

“His whores?” Cuthbert asked, confused by my question, then shook his head vigorously. “No, he means the woman, lord. Skade, lord.”

So Guthlac knew who Skade was. He had probably known ever since we had landed at Dumnoc, and I cursed the fog that had made our voyage so slow. Alfred must have guessed we would put in to an East Anglian port to resupply, and he had doubtless offered a reward to King Eohric for our capture, and Guthlac had seen a swift, if not easy, way to riches. “You want me and Skade?” I asked the priest.

“Just the two of you, lord,” Father Cuthbert said, “and if you yield yourselves, lord, then your men may leave on the morning tide.”

“Let’s start with the woman,” I said, and held Wasp-Sting out to Skade. She stood as she took the sword, and I stepped aside. “You can have her,” I told the priest.

Father Cuthbert watched as Skade ran a long slow finger up the short-sword’s blade. She smiled at the priest, who shuddered. “Lord?” he asked plaintively.

“So take her!” I told him.

Skade held the sword low, its blade pointing upward, and Father Cuthbert did not need much imagination to envisage that shining steel ripping through his belly. He frowned, embarrassed by the grins on my men’s faces, then he summoned his courage and beckoned to Skade. “Put the blade down, woman,” he said, “and come with me.”

“Lord Uhtred told you to take me, priest,” she said.

Cuthbert licked his lips. “She’ll kill me, lord,” he complained to me.

I pretended to think about that statement, then nodded. “Very likely,” I said.

“I shall consult the reeve,” he said with what little dignity he could muster, and almost ran back to the door. I nodded to Sihtric to let the priest go, then took my sword back from Skade.

“We could make a dash for the ship, lord?” Finan suggested. He was peering through a knothole in the tavern’s front door and evidently did not have a great opinion of the men waiting in ambush.

“You see they’ve got bows?” I asked.

“Ah, so they do,” he said, “and that puts a big fat turd in the ale barrel, doesn’t it?” He straightened from the peephole. “So we wait for them to get tired, lord?”

“Or for me to have a better idea,” I suggested, and just then there was another rap on the back door, louder this time, and again I nodded to Sihtric to unbar.

Guthlac now stood in the doorway. He still wore his mail, but had donned a helmet and carried a shield as added protection. “A truce while we talk?” he suggested.

“You mean we’re at war?” I asked.

“I mean you let me talk, then let me go,” he said truculently, tugging at one of his long black mustaches.

“We shall talk,” I agreed, “then you can go.”

He took a cautious step into the room, where he looked somewhat surprised to see how well armed my men were. “I’ve sent for my lord’s household troops,” he said.

“That was probably wise,” I said, “because your men can’t beat mine.”

He frowned at that. “We don’t want a fight!”

“We do,” I said enthusiastically, “we were hoping for a fight. Nothing finishes an evening in a tavern so well as a fight, don’t you agree?”

“Maybe a woman?” Finan suggested, grinning at Ethne.

“True,” I agreed. “Ale first, next a fight, then a woman. Just like Valhalla. So tell us when you’re ready, Guthlac, and we’ll have the fight.”

“Yield yourself, lord,” he said. “We were told you might be coming, and it seems Alfred of Wessex wants you. He doesn’t want your life, lord, just your body. Yours and the woman’s.”

“I don’t want Alfred to have my body,” I said.

Guthlac sighed. “We’re going to stop you leaving, lord,” he said patiently. “I’ve got fourteen hunters with bows waiting for you. You’ll doubtless kill some men, lord, and that will be another crime to add to your offenses, but my archers will kill some of your men, and we don’t want to. Your men and your ship are free to leave, but you’re not. Nor is the woman,” he looked at Skade, “Edith.”

I smiled at him. “So take me! But remember I’m the man who killed Ubba Lothbrokson beside the sea.”

Guthlac looked at my sword, tugged on his mustache again, and took a step backward. “I won’t die on that blade, lord,” he said, “I’ll wait for my lord’s troops. They’ll take you, and kill the rest of you. So I advise that you yield, lord, before they arrive.”

“You want me to yield now so you get the reward?”

“And what’s wrong with that?” he asked belligerently.