envoys to Dunholm my uncle would hear of it and suspect treachery. “So what is your price?” I asked.
“Three thousand shillings,” Constantin said, “will keep Alba’s warriors safe in their homes all summer.”
I did not have nearly that amount, but Ragnar nodded. Constantin plainly believed that we were planning to attack Bebbanburg, and of course we were not, but Ragnar still feared an invasion of his land by the Scots while he was away in Wessex. Such an invasion was always a possibility because Alfred took care to keep the Scottish kings friendly as a threat against the Danes in northern England. “Let me suggest,” Ragnar said carefully, “that I pay you three thousand silver shillings and that you vow to keep your warriors out of all Northumbria for one full year.”
Constantin considered that. Ragnar’s suggestion differed hardly at all from what Constantin himself had proposed, but the small dif ference was important. Constantin glanced at me and I saw the shrewdness in his mind. He understood that maybe Bebbanburg was not our ambition. He nodded. “I could accept that,” he said.
“And King Domnal?” I asked, “will he accept that?”
“He will do what I say,” Constantin said confidently.
“But how do we know you will keep your word?” Ragnar demanded.
“I bring you a gift,” Constantin said, and beckoned toward his men. The two prisoners were ordered out of their saddles and, with bound hands, fetched across the stream to stand beside Constantin. “These two men are brothers,” Constantin said to Ragnar, “and they led the raid on your land. I shall return the women and children they captured, but for the moment I give you these two.”
Ragnar glanced at the two bearded men. “Two lives as surety?” he asked, “and when they are dead, what’s to stop you breaking your word?”
“I give you three lives,” Constantin said. He touched his son’s shoulder. “Cellach is my eldest and he is dear to me. I give him to you as a hostage. If one of my men crosses into Northumbria with a sword then you may kill Cellach.”
I remembered Haesten’s joy at foisting a false son on us as a hostage, but there was no doubt that Cellach was Constantin’s boy. The resemblance was striking. I looked at the boy and felt an instant regret that my eldest son did not have his bold demeanor and firm gaze.
Ragnar thought for a moment, but saw no disadvantage. He kicked his horse forward and held out his hand, and Constantin took it. “I shall send the silver,” Ragnar promised.
“And it will be exchanged for Cellach,” Constantin promised. “You will permit me to send servants and a tutor with the boy?”
“They will all be welcome,” Ragnar said.
Constantin looked pleased. “Our business is concluded, I think.”
And so it was. The Scots rode away and we stripped the two prisoners naked, then Ragnar killed both men with his sword. He did it quickly. Mist was flowing soft and silent down the hills and we were in a hurry to leave. The two men were decapitated and their corpses left beside the junction of the streams. Then we mounted and rode on south.
Ragnar rode with the pledge that his northern frontier would be peaceful while he was fighting in Wessex. It was, indeed, a good agreement, but it left me uncomfortable. I had liked Constantin, but there was an intelligence and a calculation in him that promised he would be a difficult and formidable enemy. How had he arranged the secret meeting with Ragnar? By instigating the raid that had prompted our retaliatory attack, of course, and then Constantin had betrayed the men who had done his bidding in the first place. He was clever and he was young. I would have to live with Constantin a long time, and if I had known then what I know now I would have slit both his and his son’s throats.
But, at least for the next twelve months, he kept his word.
Spring came late, but when at last it arrived the land greened swiftly. Lambs were born, the days grew long and warm, and men’s minds turned to war.
The two powerful Northumbrian jarls, Sigurd Thorrson and Cnut Ranulfson, came to Dunholm together, and after them a slew of lesser lords, all of them Danes and even the least of them capable of leading more than a hundred trained warriors into battle. They came with just a handful of warriors, servants, and slaves each, but Ragnar’s capacious halls were still insufficient and so some of the lesser jarls were accommodated in the town south of the fortress.
There was feasting and gift-giving and, during the day, talking. The jarls had arrived believing the tale that we gathered men for an assault on Bebbanburg, but Ragnar disabused them on the first day. “And Alfred will hear we plan to attack Wessex,” he warned them, “because some of you will tell your men, and they will tell others, and this news will reach Alfred within days.”
“So keep silent,” Sigurd Thorrson growled.
Jarl Sigurd was a tall, hard-looking man with a beard plaited into two great ropes which he twisted about his thick neck. He owned land that stretched from southern Northumbria into northern Mercia and had learned his trade by fighting ?thelred’s warriors. His friend, Cnut Ranulfson, was slighter, but had the same wiry strength that Finan possessed. Cnut was reputed to be the finest swordsman in all Britain, and his blade, together with the horde of household warriors his wealth commanded, had given him lands bordering Sigurd’s estates. His hair was bone white, though he was only thirty years old, and he had the palest eyes I have ever seen, which, with his hair, gave him a spectral appearance. He had a quick smile, though, and an infinite store of jests. “I had a Saxon slave girl just as pretty as that one,” he had told me when we first met. He was gazing at one of Ragnar’s slaves who was carrying wooden platters to the great hall. “But she died,” he went on gloomily, “died from drinking milk.”
“The milk was bad?”
“The cow collapsed on top of her,” Cnut said and burst into laughter.
Cnut was in a serious mood when Ragnar announced that he wanted to lead an assault on Wessex. Ragnar gave a good speech, explaining that West Saxon power was growing and that West Saxon ambitions were to capture Mercia, then East Anglia and finally to invade Northumbria. “King Alfred,” Ragnar said, “calls himself King of the Angelcynn, and English is spoken in my land as it is in all your lands. If we do nothing then the English will take us one by one.”
“Alfred is dying,” Cnut objected.
“But his ambitions will live on,” Ragnar said. “And Wessex knows its best defense is attack, and Wessex has a dream of pushing its boundary to touch the land of the Scots.”
“Wish the bastards would conquer the Scots,” a man interjected glumly.
“If we do nothing,” Ragnar said, “then one day Northumbria will be ruled by Wessex.”
There was an argument about the real power of Wessex. I kept silent, though I knew more than any man there. I let them talk their way to sense and, under Ragnar’s guidance, they at last understood that Wessex was a country that had organized itself for war. Its defense was the burhs, garrisoned by the fyrd, but its offense was the growing number of household warriors who could gather under the king’s banner. The Danes were more feared, man for man, but they had never organized themselves as Alfred had organized Wessex. Every Danish jarl protected his own land, and was reluctant to follow the orders of another jarl. It was possible to unite them, as Harald had done, but at the first setback the crews would scatter to find easier plunder.
“So,” Sigurd growled dubiously, “we have to capture the burhs?”
“Harald captured one,” Ragnar pointed out.
“I hear it was only half built,” Sigurd said, looking at me for confirmation. I nodded.
“If you want Wessex,” Ragnar said, “we must take the burhs.” He forced a confident smile. “We sail to his south coast,” he went on, “in a great fleet! We’ll capture Exanceaster and then march on Wintanceaster. Alfred will be expecting an attack from the north, so we’ll assault from the south.”
“And his ships will see our fleet,” Cnut objected, “and his warriors will be waiting for us.”
“His warriors,” a new voice intervened from the back of the hall, “will be fighting against my crews. So you will only have Alfred’s fyrd to fight.” The speaker stood in the open hall doorway and the sun was so bright that none of us could see him properly. “I shall assault Mercia,” the man said in a loud and confident voice, “and Alfred’s forces will march to defend it, and with them gone, Wessex will be ripe for your plucking.” The man came a few paces forward, followed by a dozen mailed warriors. “Greetings, Jarl Ragnar,” he said, “and to you all,” he swept an expansive hand around the company, “greetings!”
It was Haesten. He had not been invited to this council, yet there he was, smiling and glittering with gold chains. It was a mild day, yet he had chosen to wear an otterskin cloak lined with rare yellow silk to show his wealth. There was a moment’s embarrassment fol lowing his arrival as though no one was certain whether to treat
