off our retreat,’ I told Edward. ‘They could send ships upriver or use the smaller road, but Merewalh’s scouts should see them if they try either of those things.’
He had nodded. I was not sure he entirely understood what I was saying, but he was now so grateful for my advice that he would probably have nodded if I had told him to send men to guard the dark half of the moon.
‘I can’t be certain they’ll try to cut our retreat,’ I told the king, ‘but as your army crosses the bridge just keep them there. No one marches on Bedanford till we’re all across the river! Draw them up for battle. Once we have every man safe across we can march on Bedanford together. What we don’t do is string the army out along the road.’
We should have had everyone across the river by midday, but chaos ruled. Some troops were lost, others were so laden with plunder that they could only move at a snail’s pace, and Sigelf’s men became entangled with those coming the other way. The Danes should have crossed the river and attacked, but instead they stayed at Huntandon, and Finan watched them from the south. Sigelf did not reach Finan till mid afternoon, and then he arrayed his men across the road about half a mile south of the river. It was a well-chosen position. A straggly stand of trees hid some of his men who were protected on either flank by stretches of marsh, and in front by a flooded ditch. If the Danes crossed the bridge they could draw up their shield wall, but to attack Sigelf they must cross the deep, flooded ditch behind which the Centish shields, swords, axes and spears were waiting.
‘They might try to go around the marshes to attack you from behind,’ I told Sigelf.
‘I’ve fought before,’ he snapped at me.
I did not care if I was offending him. ‘So don’t stay here if they do cross the bridge,’ I told him, ‘just back away. And if they don’t cross I’ll send word when you should rejoin us.’
‘Are you in command?’ he demanded. ‘Or Edward?’
‘I am,’ I said, and he looked startled.
His son, Sigebriht, had listened to the exchange and now accompanied me as I rode north to look at the Danes. ‘Will they attack, lord?’ he asked me.
‘I understand nothing about this war,’ I told him, ‘nothing. The bastards should have attacked us weeks ago.’
‘Perhaps they’re frightened of us,’ he said, then laughed, which I thought curious, but ascribed to youthful foolishness. He was indeed foolish, yet such a handsome fool. He still wore his hair long, tied at the nape of his neck with a leather strip, and around his neck was the pink silk ribbon that still had the faint bloodstain from that morning outside Sceaftesburi. His expensive mail was polished, his gold-panelled belt shone, and his crystal- pommelled sword was sheathed in a scabbard decorated with writhing dragons made from finely-twisted gold wire. His face was strong-boned, bright-eyed, and his skin reddened by the cold. ‘So they should have attacked us,’ he said, ‘but what should we have done?’
‘Attacked them at Cracgelad,’ I said.
‘Why didn’t we?’
‘Because Edward was frightened of losing Lundene,’ I said, ‘and he was waiting for your father.’
‘He needs us,’ Sigebriht said with evident satisfaction.
‘What he needed,’ I said, ‘was an assurance of Cent’s loyalty.’
‘He doesn’t trust us?’ Sigebriht asked disingenuously.
‘Why should he?’ I asked savagely. ‘You supported ?thelwold and sent messengers to Sigurd. Of course he didn’t trust you.’
‘I submitted to Edward, lord,’ Sigebriht said humbly. He glanced at me and decided he needed to say more. ‘I admit all you say, lord, but there is a madness in youth, is there not?’
‘Madness?’
‘My father says young men are bewitched to madness.’ He fell silent a moment. ‘I loved Ecgwynn,’ he said wistfully. ‘Did you ever meet her?’
‘No.’
‘She was small, lord, like an elf, and as beautiful as the dawn. She could turn a man’s blood to fire.’
‘Madness,’ I said.
‘But she chose Edward,’ he said, ‘and it maddened me.’
‘And now?’ I asked.
‘The heart mends,’ he said feelingly, ‘it leaves a scar, but I’m not foolish-mad. Edward is king and he’s been good to me.’
‘And there are other women,’ I said.
‘Thank God, yes,’ he said and laughed again.
I liked him at that moment. I had never trusted him, but he was surely right that there are women who drive us to madness and to foolishness, and the heart does mend, even if the scar remains, and then we ended the conversation because Finan was galloping towards us and the river was before us and the Danes were in sight.
The Use was wide here. The clouds had slowly covered the windless sky so that the river was grey and flat. A dozen swans moved slow on the slow-moving water. It seemed to me that the world was still, even the Danes were quiet and they were there in their hundreds, their thousands, their banners bright beneath the darkening cloud. ‘How many?’ I asked Finan.
‘Too many, lord,’ he said, an answer I deserved because it was impossible to count the enemy who were hidden by the houses of the small town. More were spread along the river banks either side of the town. I could see Sigurd’s flying raven banner on the higher ground at the town’s centre, and Cnut’s flag of the axe and broken cross at the far side of the bridge. There were Saxons there too, because Beortsig’s symbol of the boar was displayed alongside ?thelwold’s stag. Downriver of the bridge was a fleet of Danish ships moored thick along the farther bank, but only seven had been dismasted and brought beneath the bridge, which suggested the Danes had no thought of using their boats to advance upriver to Eanulfsbirig.
‘So why aren’t they attacking?’ I asked.
None had crossed the bridge, which, of course, had been made by the Romans. I sometimes think that if the Romans had never invaded Britain we would never have managed to cross a river. On the southern bank, close to where we stood our horses, was a dilapidated Roman house and a huddle of thatched cottages. It would have been a fine place for the Danish vanguard, but for some reason they seemed content to wait on the far northern bank.
It began to rain. It was a thin, sharp rain, and it brought a gust of wind that rippled the river about the swans. The sun was low in the west, the sky there still free of cloud, so that it seemed to me that the land across the river and the bright-shielded Danes glowed in a world of grey shadow. I could see a smoke plume much farther north, and that was strange because whatever burned was in Eohric’s territory and we had no men that far north. Perhaps, I thought, it was just a trick of the clouds or an accidental fire. ‘Does your father listen to you?’ I asked Sigebriht.
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Tell him we’ll send a messenger when he can begin to withdraw.’
‘Till then we stay?’
‘Unless the Danes attack, yes,’ I said, ‘and one other thing. Watch those bastards.’ I pointed to the Danes who were furthest west. ‘There’s a road that goes outside the river bend and if you see the enemy using that road, send us a message.’
He frowned in thought. ‘Because they might try to block our retreat?’
‘Exactly,’ I said, pleased he had understood, ‘and if they manage to cut the road to Bedanford then we’ll have to fight them back and front.’
‘And that’s where we’re going?’ he asked. ‘To Bedanford?’
‘Yes.’
‘And that’s to the west?’ he asked.
‘To the west,’ I told Sigebriht, ‘but you won’t have to find your own way there. You’ll be back with the army this evening.’ What I did not tell him was that I was leaving most of my men not far behind the Centish troops. Sigebriht’s father Sigelf was such a proud man and so difficult to deal with that he would have immediately accused me of not trusting him if he had known my men were close. In truth I wanted my own eyes close to Huntandon, and Finan had the keenest eyes of anyone I knew.
