“Thorstein protected these folk, lord,” Heahberht told me.
“But he didn’t protect Thunresleam?”
“These are Thorstein’s people, lord. They belong to him. They work his land.”
“So who’s the Lord of Thunresleam?”
“Whoever is in the fort,” he said bitterly. “This way, lord.” He led me past a duck pond and into a thicket of bushes where a small cottage, thatched so deep that it looked more like a pile of straw than a dwelling, stood in the trees’ shadows. “The man is called Brun, lord.”
“Brun?”
“Just Brun. Some say he’s mad, lord.”
Brun crawled from his cottage. He had to crawl to get beneath the thatch’s edge. He half stood, saw my mail coat and golden arm rings, and fell back to his knees and scrabbled with dirt-crusted hands in the earth. He mumbled something I did not hear. A woman then emerged from beneath the thatch and knelt beside Brun and the two of them made whimpering noises as they bobbed their heads. Their hair was long, matted and tangled. Father Heahberht told them what we wanted and Brun grunted something, then abruptly stood. He was a tiny man, no taller than the dwarves that are said to live underground. His hair was so thick that I could not see his eyes. He pulled his woman to her feet, and she was no taller than him and certainly no prettier, then the pair of them gabbled at Heahberht, but their speech was so garbled that I could hardly understand a word. “He says we must go to the back of the house,” Heahberht said.
“You can understand them?”
“Well enough, lord.”
I left my escort in the lane, tied our two horses to a hornbeam, then followed the diminutive couple through thick weeds to where, half hidden by grass, was what I sought. Rows of hives. Bees were busy in the warm air, but they ignored us, going to and from the cone-shaped hives that appeared to be fashioned from baked mud. Brun, a sudden fondness in his voice, was stroking one hive. “He says the bees talk to him, lord,” Heahberht told me, “and he talks back.”
Bees crawled up Brun’s bare arms and he muttered to them. “What do they tell him?” I asked.
“What happens in the world, lord. And he tells them he’s sorry.”
“For the world’s happenings?”
“Because to get the honey for the mead, lord, he must break the hives open, and then the bees die. He buries them, he says, and says prayers over their graves.”
Brun was crooning at his bees, singing like a mother to her infants. “I’ve only seen straw hives,” I said. “Maybe straw hives don’t need to be broken? Maybe the bees can live?”
Brun must have understood what I said for he turned angrily and spoke fast. “He doesn’t approve of skeps, lord,” Heahberht translated, speaking of the woven straw hives. “He makes his hives the old-fashioned way, out of plaited hazel twigs and cow dung. He says the honey is sweeter.”
“Tell him what I want,” I said, “and tell him I’ll pay well.”
And so the bargain was struck and I rode back to the old fort on the hill and thought there was a chance. Just a chance. Because the bees had spoken.
That night, and the following two nights, I sent men down the long hill to the new fort. I led them the first two nights, leaving the old fort after dark. Men carried the sails, which had been cut into two, then each half sewn to a pair of spars so that we had six wide rope ladders. When we attacked in earnest we would have to go into the creek, unfurl the six wide ladders, and lay them against the farther bank, then men would have to climb the latticed ropes carrying real ladders that must be laid against the wall.
But for three nights we just feigned attacks. We went close to the moat, we shouted and our archers, of whom we had just over a hundred, shot arrows at the Danes. They, in turn, shot arrows back and hurled spears that thumped into the mud. They also threw fire-brands to light the night and, when they saw we were not attempting to cross the moat, I heard men shouting orders to stop throwing the spears.
I learned the walls were well manned. Haesten had left a large garrison, so many that some Danes were not needed in the fort at all, but instead guarded the ships drawn up on Caninga’s shore.
I did not go down the hill on the third night. I let Steapa lead that feint while I watched from the high fort’s walls. Just after dark my men brought a wagon from Hocheleia and in it were eight hives. Brun had told us that the best time to seal a hive was at dusk, and that evening he had closed up the entrances with plugs of mud mixed with cow dung that now slowly hardened. I put my ear next to one hive and heard a strange humming vibration.
“The bees will live till tomorrow night?” Edward asked me.
“They don’t have to,” I said, “because we’re attacking in tomorrow’s dawn.”
“Tomorrow!” he said, unable to hide his surprise, which pleased me. By making feint attacks during the early darkness I wanted to persuade the Danes that we would be launching our real attack shortly after dusk. Instead I would go at them at daybreak next morning, but I hoped that Skade and her men were already convinced, like Edward, that I planned an attack at nightfall.
“Tomorrow morning,” I said, “and we leave tonight, in the dark.”
“Tonight?” Edward asked, still astonished.
“Tonight.”
He made the sign of the cross. ?thelfl?d who, with Steapa, was the only other person I had told of my plans, came to stand beside me and put her hand through my arm. Edward seemed to shiver at the sight of our affection, then forced a smile. “Pray for me, sister,” he said.
“I always have,” she replied.
She looked at him steadily and he met her gaze for an instant, then looked at me. He started to speak, but nervousness made the first word an incoherent croak. He tried again. “You would not give me your oath, Lord Uhtred,” he said.
“No, lord.”
“But my sister has it?”
?thelfl?d’s arm tightened on mine. “She has my sworn loyalty, lord,” I said.
“Then I have no need of your oath,” Edward said with a smile.
That was generous of him and I bowed in acknowledgment. “You don’t need my oath, lord,” I said, “but your men need your encouragement tonight. Speak to them. Inspire them.”
There would be little sleep that night. It took men time to prepare for battle. It was a time of fear, a time when the imagination makes the enemy seem ever more fearsome. Some men, a few, fled the fort and sought shelter in the woods, but they were very few. The rest sharpened swords and axes. I would not let men feed the fires, because I did not want the Danes to see anything different about this night, and so most weapons were honed in the dark. Men pulled on boots, mail, and helmets. They made poor jokes. Some just sat with bowed heads, but they listened when Edward spoke to them. He went from group to group and I remembered how uninspiring his father’s first speech had been before the great victory at Ethandun. Edward was not much better, but he had an earnestness that was convincing, and men murmured approval when he promised that he would be the first man in the attack.
“You must keep him alive,” Father Coenwulf told me sternly.
“Isn’t that the responsibility of your god?” I asked.
“His father will never forgive you if Edward dies.”
“He has another son,” I said flippantly.
“Edward is a good man,” Coenwulf said angrily, “and he’ll make a good king.”
I agreed with that. I had not thought so before, but I had begun to like Edward. He had a willingness about him, and I did not doubt he would prove brave. He feared, of course, like all men fear, but he had kept those fears behind the fence of his teeth. He was determined to prove himself an heir, and that meant going to the place of death. He had not balked at that idea, and for that I respected him. “He’ll make a good king,” I told Coenwulf, “if he proves himself. And you know he must prove himself.”
The priest paused, then nodded. “But look after him,” he pleaded.
“I’ve told Steapa to look after him,” I told Coenwulf, “and I can’t do better than that.”
Father Pyrlig, dressed in his rusted mail, a sword at his waist and with an ax and a shield slung from his shoulders, came from the dark. “My men are ready,” he said. I had given him thirty men whose job was to carry the hives down the dark hill and across the moat.
