By dusk we had reached Dingesmere and could see the escaping ships rowing into the Mærse. Almost all were gone, but most of those fleeing ships were empty, the crews left to guard them had taken them to sea to escape pursuit and so abandoned hundreds of enemy who were slaughtered in the shallow waters of the marsh. Some begged for mercy, but Æthelstan’s men had none and the water between the rushes turned red.
Finan and my son had found me and watched with me. ‘It’s over, then,’ Finan said in a tone of disbelief.
‘It’s over,’ I agreed. ‘We can go home.’ And I suddenly longed for Bebbanburg, for the clean sea and the long beach and the wind from the water.
Æthelstan found me. He looked stern. His mail, cloak, horse, and saddle cloth were stained dark with blood. ‘Well done, lord King,’ I said.
‘God gave us the victory.’ He sounded tired, and no wonder, for I doubted that any man had fought harder in the shield wall that day. He looked down at Serpent-Breath and gave me a wry smile. ‘She served me well, lord.’
‘She’s a great sword, lord King.’
He held her out to me, hilt first. ‘You will dine with me tonight, Lord Uhtred.’
‘As you command,’ I said and took the sword gratefully. I could not put her in the scabbard till she was cleaned, so I tossed away my borrowed sword and held Serpent-Breath as we rode back down the long road in the gathering dark. Women were searching the dead, using long knives to kill those close to death before plundering the bodies. The first fires pricked the early dark.
It was over.
Epilogue
I am Uhtred, son of Uhtred, who was the son of Uhtred, and his father was also called Uhtred, and they were all lords of Bebbanburg. I am that too, though these days folk call me the Lord of the North. My lands stretch from the wind-beaten North Sea to the shores facing Ireland and, though I am old, my task is to stop the Scots coming south into the land we have learned to call Englaland.
I have imposed peace on Cumbria. I did it by sending my son and Egil to punish those who would cause trouble. They hanged some, burned steadings, and gave land to men who had fought on the heath at Wirhealum. Much of Cumbria is still occupied by Danes and Norsemen, but they live in peace with the Saxons, and their children have learned to speak the Saxon tongue and some now worship the nailed god of the Christians. We are proud to be Northumbrians, yet we are all Ænglisc now and Æthelstan is called the King of Englaland. His shattered sword hangs in his great hall at Wintanceaster, though I have not travelled south to see it. He was generous to me, rewarding me with gold and silver taken at the field on Wirhealum where so many men lie buried.
There was a feast three days after the battle. Æthelstan had wanted it on the night of the battle, but men were too tired, there were too many injured who needed care, and so he waited until he could gather his leaders in Ceaster. There was more ale than food, and what food there was did not taste good. There was bread, some hams, and a stew that I suspected was horse-flesh. Maybe a hundred and twenty men gathered in Ceaster’s great hall after Bishop Oda held a service in the church. A harpist played but did not sing, because no song could match the slaughter we had endured. It was called a victory feast, and I suppose it was, but until the ale had loosened men’s tongues, it felt like a funeral. Æthelstan gave a speech in which he lamented the loss of two ealdormen, Ælfine and Æthelwyn, but then spread praise among the men listening from the benches. He raised a cheer when he singled out Steapa, who had taken a spear thrust in his shield arm when his horsemen had shattered Anlaf’s shield wall. He named me too, calling me the warlord of Englaland. Men cheered.
Englaland! I remember first hearing that name and finding it strange. King Alfred had dreamed of an Englaland and I had been with him when he marched from the marshes of Sumersæte to assault the great army led by Anlaf’s grandfather. ‘We were supposed to die at Ethandun,’ Alfred had once said to me, ‘but God was on our side. There will always be an Englaland.’ I had not believed him, yet over the long years I had fought for that dream, not always willingly, and now Alfred’s grandson had conquered the northern alliance and Englaland stretched from the Scottish hills to the southern sea. ‘God gave us this country,’ Æthelstan declaimed in Ceaster’s hall, ‘and God will keep it.’
Yet Æthelstan’s god allowed both Anlaf and Constantine to escape the slaughter of Wirhealum. Anlaf is in Dyflin, muttering that he will return, and perhaps he will because he is young, ambitious, and bitter. I am told that the king of the Scots has relinquished his throne and gone to live in a monastery and that his realm is now ruled by Indulf, his second son. There are still cattle raids across my northern border, but fewer, because when we find the raiders we kill them and nail their heads to trees to warn others what awaits them.
The dragon and the star did not lie. The danger came from the north, and the dragon died on the heath of Wirhealum. Domnall and Cellach died there. So did Anlaf Cenncairech who was known as Scabbyhead. He was King of Hlymrekr in Ireland, forced to fight at Wirhealum by his conqueror whose name he
