why, at least by the time Steapa left, the Danes had made no attempt to attack it. “Haesten was clever,” I said.
“Clever?” Steapa asked.
“He persuaded the Northumbrians to attack by saying he’d distract Alfred’s army,” I explained, “and then he warned Alfred of the Northumbrian attack to make sure he didn’t have to fight the West Saxons.”
“He has to fight us,” Steapa growled.
“Because Alfred is just as clever,” I said. Alfred knew Haesten was the greater threat. If Haesten could be defeated then the Northumbrians would lose heart and, in all likelihood, sail away. Ragnar’s Northumbrians had to be held at bay, which is why so much of the West Saxon army was in Defnascir, but Alfred had sent his son and twelve hundred of his best men to Beamfleot. He wanted me to weaken Haesten, but he wanted much more than that.
He wanted the ?theling Edward’s reputation to be burnished by the victory. Alfred had not needed to sent the ?theling. Steapa and his men were indispensable to me, while Edward was a liability, but Alfred knew his own death could not be too distant and he wanted to be certain that his son succeeded him, and for that he needed to give Edward a warrior’s renown. Which is why he had asked me to give Edward my oath and I reflected bitterly that my refusal had not prevented Alfred from manipulating me so that I was here, fighting for the Christians and fighting for Edward.
The ?theling at last entered the fort, his arrival announced by horn blasts. Men knelt as he rode to the hall and I watched him acknowledge the homage with graceful waves of his right hand. He looked young and slight, and I remembered Ragnar asking if I wanted to be King of Wessex and I could not resist a sudden, bitter laugh. Finan glanced at me curiously. “He’ll want us in the hall,” Steapa said.
The big hall stank. The servants had shoveled the horse dung to one side, and raked out most of the stale floor-rushes, but the hall still reeked like a latrine and buzzed with fat flies. I had feasted here once, back when the hall was lit by fire and loud with laughter and the memory made me wonder if all the great high-beamed feasting halls were doomed to decay.
There was no dais, so Edward’s chair was set on a great rug and next to him was a stool on which ?thelfl?d sat. Behind the brother and sister was a dark group of priests. I knew none of them, but they evidently knew me because four of the six churchmen made the sign of the cross when I approached the makeshift throne.
Steapa knelt to the ?theling, Finan bowed, and I nodded my head. Edward evidently expected more obeisance from me and waited, but when it was plain that I had offered him all I was prepared to give he forced a smile. “You did well,” he said in his high voice. There was neither warmth nor conviction in the compliment.
I slapped Steapa’s back. “Steapa did well, lord.”
“He is a loyal warrior and a good Christian,” Edward said, implying that I was neither.
“He’s also a big ugly brute,” I said, “and he makes Danes shit themselves with fear.”
Edward and the priests all bridled at that. Edward was steeling himself to reprove me when ?thelfl?d’s laughter cut across the hall. Edward looked annoyed at the sound, but composed himself. “I am sorry that the Lord ?lfwold died,” he said.
“I share your sorrow, lord.”
“My father,” he said, “has sent me to capture this nest of heathen pirates.” He spoke in the same way that he sat; stiffly. He was horribly conscious of his youth and of his fragile authority, but, like his father, he had intelligent eyes. He was lost in this hall, though. He was frightened of my blood-spattered face, and frightened of most of the older warriors who had been killing Danes when he was still sucking on his wet nurse’s tits. “The question,” he said, “is how.”
“Steapa already has the answer,” I said.
Edward looked relieved and Steapa looked alarmed. “Speak, Steapa,” Edward said.
Steapa looked at me in fright so I answered for him. “We have to cross the moat and climb the wall,” I said, “and we can only do that at low tide, and the Danes know it. They also know we have to do it quickly.”
There was silence. I had stated the obvious and that clearly disappointed Edward, but what did he expect? That I would have some sorcerous scheme born from pagan wiles? Or did he believe angels would fly from the Christian heaven and attack the Danes inside the fort? There were only two ways to capture Beamfleot. One was to starve the Danes, and we did not have the time to do that, and the other was to storm the walls. Sometimes, in war, simple is the only answer. It is also likely to be a blood-soaked answer, and all the men in the hall knew it. Some looked at me reproachfully, imagining the horror of trying to scale a high palisade manned by murderous Danes. “So,” I went on confidently, “we need to be busy. Weohstan,” I turned to him, “your men will patrol the marshes to stop messengers leaving the fort. Beornoth, take Lord ?lfwold’s men and threaten the ship-forts at the creek’s end. You, lord,” I looked at Edward, “your men must start making ladders, and you,” I pointed at the six priests, “what are you good for?”
Edward just stared at me in horror and the priests looked offended. “They can pray, Lord Uhtred?” ?thelfl?d suggested sweetly.
“Then pray hard,” I told them.
There was silence again. Men expected a council of war, and Edward, who was notionally in charge, would have liked the pretense that he was making the decisions, but we did not have time to argue. “Ladders,” Edward finally said in a puzzled voice.
“We climb them,” I said savagely, “and we need at least forty.”
Edward blinked. I could see he was debating whether to slap me down, but then he must have decided that victory at Beamfleot was preferable to making an enemy. He even managed a smile. “They will be made,” he said graciously.
“So all we have to do,” I said, “is get them across the moat, then use them to climb the wall.” Edward’s smile faded.
Because even he knew men would die. Too many men.
But there was no other way.
The first problem was crossing the moat, to which end I rode north the next day. I was worried that Haesten would lead his men back to relieve the siege and we sent strong scouting parties west and north to watch for the coming of that army. In the end it never did come. Haesten, it seemed, was confident of Beamfleot’s strength and of the courage of its garrison, so instead of trying to destroy us he sent his raiding parties ever farther into Mercia, attacking unwalled towns and villages that had thought themselves safe because they were close to the West Saxon border. The skies over Mercia were palled with smoke.
I rode to Thunresleam and found the priest, Heahberht. I told him what I wanted, and Osferth, who was leading the eighteen men who accompanied me, gave the priest a spare horse. “I’ll fall off, lord,” Heahberht said nervously, staring with his one eye at the tall stallion.
“You’ll be safe,” I said. “Just cling on. That horse will look after you.”
I had taken Osferth and his men because we were riding north into East Anglia and that was Danish territory. I did not expect trou ble. Any Dane who wished to fight the Saxons would already have ridden with Haesten, so those who had remained on their land probably wanted no part of the war, yet even so it was prudent to ride in force. We were just about to go north from the village when Osferth warned me that more horsemen were approaching, and I turned to see them coming from the woods that screened Beamfleot.
My first thought was that Haesten’s army must have been seen far to the west and these horsemen rode to warn me, but then one rider raised a dragon banner and I saw it was the flag of the ?theling Edward. Edward himself was with them, accompanied by a score of warriors and a priest. “I haven’t seen much East Anglian territory,” he explained his presence awkwardly, “and wish to accompany you.”
“You’re welcome, lord,” I said in a voice that made it amply clear he was not.
“This is Father Coenwulf,” Edward introduced the priest who gave me a reluctant nod. He was a pale-skinned man, some ten years or so older than Edward. “Father Coenwulf was my tutor,” Edward said with an affectionate tone, “and is now my confessor and friend.”
“What did you teach him?” I asked Coenwulf, who made no answer, but just stared at me with indignant and very blue eyes.
“Philosophy,” Edward said, “and the writings of the church fathers.”
“I learned just one useful lesson as a child,” I told him. “Beware the blow that comes under the shield. This is Father Heahberht,” I gestured at the one-eyed priest, “and this is the ?theling Edward,” I said to the village priest
