‘To gather all our forces before we fight. And the council agrees.’ We were in the large upper room where a great bed stood between two candle-lanterns. Edward was standing in the large window that overlooked the old city, the window where ?thelflaed and I had stood so often. It looked west towards the new city where soft firelight glimmered. Farther west it was dark, a black land. ‘The twins are safe?’ Edward asked me.
‘They’re in Cirrenceastre, lord King,’ I said, ‘so yes, they’re safe.’ The twins, ?thelstan and Eadgyth, were with my daughter and younger son, all in good hands inside Cirrenceastre, a burh that was as well defended as Cracgelad. Fagranforda had been burned as I had expected, but my people were all safe inside Cirrenceastre.
‘And the boy is in good health?’ Edward asked anxiously.
‘?thelstan’s a lusty baby,’ I said.
‘I wish I could see them,’ he said.
‘Father Cuthbert and his wife are looking after them,’ I said.
‘Cuthbert’s married?’ Edward asked, surprised.
‘To a very pretty girl,’ I said.
‘Poor woman,’ Edward said, ‘she’ll be riddled to death by him.’ He smiled, and looked unhappy when I did not return the smile. ‘And my sister’s here?’
‘Yes, lord King.’
‘She should be looking after the children,’ he said sternly.
‘You tell her, lord King,’ I said, ‘and she’s brought you almost a hundred and fifty Mercian warriors,’ I went on. ‘Why hasn’t ?thelred sent any?’
‘He’s worried about the Irish Norsemen,’ he said, then shrugged when I made a dismissive noise. ‘Why didn’t ?thelwold go deeper into Wessex?’ he asked me.
‘Because they’re leaderless,’ I said, ‘and because no one came to his banner.’ Edward looked puzzled. ‘I think their plan was to reach Wessex, proclaim ?thelwold king, and wait for men to join them, but no one did.’
‘So what will they do?’
‘If they can’t take a burh,’ I said, ‘they’ll go back where they came from.’
Edward turned to the window. Bats flitted in the darkness, sometimes showing briefly in the light of the lanterns that lit the high room. ‘There are too many of them, Lord Uhtred,’ he said, talking of the Danes, ‘just too many. We must be sure before we attack.’
‘If you wait for certainty in war, lord King,’ I said, ‘you’ll die waiting.’
‘My father advised me to hold on to Lundene,’ he said. ‘He told me we should never relinquish the city.’
‘And let ?thelwold have the rest?’ I asked sourly.
‘He will die, but we need Ealdorman Sigelf’s men.’
‘He’s bringing seven hundred?’
‘So he promised,’ Edward said, ‘which will give us over four thousand men.’ He took comfort in that number. ‘And, of course,’ he went on, ‘we now have your men and the Mercians too. We should be strong enough.’
‘And who commands us?’ I asked in a gruff voice.
Edward looked surprised at the question. ‘I do, of course.’
‘Not Archbishop Plegmund?’
Edward stiffened. ‘I have advisers, Lord Uhtred,’ he said, ‘and it’s a foolish king who doesn’t listen to his advisers.’
‘It’s a foolish king,’ I retorted, ‘who doesn’t know which advisers to trust. And the archbishop has advised you to mistrust me. He thinks I’m sympathetic to the Danes.’
Edward hesitated, then nodded. ‘He worries about that, yes.’
‘Yet so far, lord King, I’m the only one of your men who has killed any of the bastards. For a man who can’t be trusted that’s strange behaviour, is it not?’
Edward just looked at me, then flinched as a large moth fluttered close to his face. He called for servants to close the big shutters. Somewhere in the dark I could hear men singing. A servant took the robe from Edward’s shoulders, then lifted the gold chain from around his neck. Beyond the arch, where the door stood open, I could see a girl waiting in the dark shadows. It was not Edward’s wife. ‘Thank you for coming,’ he said, dismissing me.
I bowed to him, then went.
And next day Sigelf arrived.
Twelve
The fight began in the street below the big church next to the old Mercian palace where Edward and his entourage were quartered. The men of Cent had arrived that morning, streaming across the Roman bridge and beneath the broken arch that led through Lundene’s river wall. Six hundred and eighty-six men, led by their ealdorman, Sigelf, and his son, Sigebriht, rode beneath banners showing Sigelf’s crossed swords and Sigebriht’s bloody-horned bull’s head. They had dozens of other flags, most with crosses or saints, and the horsemen were accompanied by monks, priests and wagons loaded with supplies. Not all Sigelf’s warriors were mounted, at least one hundred came without horses, and those men straggled into the city for a long while after the horsemen had arrived.
Edward ordered the Centishmen to find quarters in the eastern part of the city, but of course the newcomers wanted to explore Lundene and the fight started when a dozen of Sigelf’s men demanded ale in a tavern called the Red Pig, which was popular with Ealdorman ?thelhelm’s men. The fight began over a whore and soon spilled from the tavern door and spread down the hill. Mercians, West Saxons and Centishmen were brawling in the street and within minutes swords and knives were drawn.
‘What’s happening?’ Edward, his council interrupted, stared aghast from a palace window. He could hear shouts, blades clashing and see dead and wounded men on the stone-paved hill. ‘Is it the Danes?’ he asked, appalled.
I ignored the king. ‘Steapa!’ I called, then ran down the steps and shouted at the steward to bring me Serpent-Breath. Steapa was calling his men together. ‘You!’ I grabbed one of the king’s bodyguard. ‘Find a rope. A long one.’
‘A rope, lord?’
‘There are masons repairing the palace roof. They have rope! Fetch it! Now! And find someone who can blow a horn!’
A dozen of us strode into the street, but there were at least a hundred men fighting there, and twice that many watching and calling encouragement. I slammed a man across the head with the flat of Serpent-Breath, kicked another one down, bellowed for men to stop, but they were oblivious. One man even ran at me, screaming, his sword lifted, then seemed to realise his mistake and curved away.
The man I had sent to find a rope brought one with a heavy wooden bucket attached, and I used the pail as a weight to hurl the rope over the projecting inn sign of the Red Pig. ‘Find me a man, any man, one who’s fighting,’ I told Steapa.
He stomped off while I made a noose. A wounded man, guts hanging, crawled down the hill. A woman was screaming. The gutter was running with ale-diluted blood. One of the king’s men arrived with a horn. ‘Sound it,’ I said, ‘and keep blowing it.’
Steapa dragged a man to me, we had no idea whether he was from Wessex or Mercia, but it did not matter. I tightened the noose around his neck, slapped him when he begged for mercy, and hauled him into the air where he hanged, legs kicking. The horn blew on, insistent, unignorable. I handed the rope’s end to Oswi, my servant. ‘Tie it to something,’ I said, then turned and bellowed at the street. ‘Anyone else want to die?’
The sight of a man dancing on a rope while he chokes to death has a calming influence on a crowd. The street went quiet. The king and a dozen men had appeared at the palace door and men bowed or knelt in homage.
‘One more fight,’ I shouted, ‘and you’ll all die!’ I looked for one of my men. ‘Pull on the bastard’s ankles,’ I said, pointing at the hanged man.
‘You just killed one of my men,’ a voice said, and I turned to see a slight man with a sharp fox-like face and long red plaited moustaches. He was an older man, perhaps close to fifty, and his red hair was greying at the
