Domnall pulled an ale jug towards himself, then gestured that the priest should sit on his left. ‘Don’t worry yourself, father,’ he told the priest, ‘Lord Uhtred might be a pagan, but he’s not such a bad fellow. Father Coluim,’ Domnall was talking to me now, ‘is trusted by King Constantine.’
‘Then you’re welcome, father,’ I said.
‘Peace be on this hall,’ Coluim said in a strong voice that conveyed a deal more confidence than his nervous appearance suggested.
‘High walls, a strong garrison and good men keep it peaceful, father,’ I suggested.
‘And good allies,’ Domnall said, reaching for the ale jug again.
‘And good allies,’ I echoed him. Behind the Scots a log fell, spewing sparks.
Domnall poured himself ale. ‘And at this time Lord Uhtred,’ he went on, ‘you have no allies.’ He spoke quietly and again sounded sympathetic.
‘No allies?’ I asked. I could think of nothing else to say.
‘Who is your friend? King Constantine holds you in high regard, but he’s no ally to Northumbria.’
‘True.’
He was leaning forward, looking into my eyes with an intense gaze, and speaking so quietly that men at the ends of the benches had to strain to hear. ‘Mercia used to be your best friend,’ he went on, ‘but she died.’
I nodded. When Æthelflaed, Alfred’s daughter, had ruled Mercia she had indeed been an ally. A lover too. I said nothing.
‘Hywel of Dyfed admires you,’ Domnall continued remorselessly, ‘but Wales is a long way off. And why would Hywel march to your help?’
‘I know no reason why he should,’ I allowed.
‘Or why would any Welsh king help you?’ He paused, expecting an answer, but again I said nothing. ‘And the Norse of Cumbria hate you,’ Domnall went on. He was talking of Northumbria’s wild western lands beyond the hills. ‘You defeated them too often.’
‘But not often enough,’ I growled.
‘They breed like mice. Kill one and a dozen more come at you. And your own King Guthfrith dislikes you. He wouldn’t lift a drunken hand to help you.’
‘He hates me,’ I answered, ‘ever since I held a sword to his throat two days ago.’ That plainly surprised Domnall who had yet to hear of Guthfrith’s flight from Eoferwic. ‘He was on his way to you, I suspect,’ I went on blandly.
‘And you stopped him?’ Domnall asked cautiously.
I decided not to reveal I had heard of the Scottish envoys meeting with Guthfrith, so I shrugged. ‘His men had raped some of the women in my villages. I didn’t like that.’
‘You killed him?’
‘I gave him a choice. Fight me or go home. He went home.’
‘So Guthfrith is no ally of yours.’ Domnall was intrigued by the tale, but sensed he would get nothing more by questioning me about it. ‘So who is your ally? Æthelstan?’
I gave him an answer he did not expect. ‘Owain of Strath Clota is your king’s enemy,’ I said, ‘and I daresay he would welcome an ally. Not that he needs one. How long have you been trying to defeat him?’
And then it was Domnall’s turn to surprise me. He turned to the man on his right, the grim-looking warrior with the long bone-white hair who had the cross and the hammer hanging at his chest. ‘This is Dyfnwal,’ Domnall said, still speaking softly, ‘brother to Owain.’
I must have shown my astonishment because the hard-faced Dyfnwal responded with a mocking look. ‘Dyfnwal,’ I repeated the name clumsily. It was a Welsh name because Strath Clota was a Welsh kingdom, formed by the Britons who had been pushed northwards by the Saxon invasion. Most Britons, of course, had gone to Wales, but some had found a refuge on the western coast of Alba where their small kingdom had been strengthened by Norsemen seeking land.
‘Owain of Strath Clota has made peace with us, formed an alliance with us,’ Domnall said, ‘so King Constantine has no enemies north of Bebbanburg. Owain is with us, so is Gibhleachán of the Islands. So who will be your ally, Lord Uhtred?’
‘Egil Skallagrimmrson,’ I said. It was a fatuous response, and I knew it. Egil was a friend, a Norseman, and a great warrior, but he had few men, just enough to man two ships. I had given him land north of Bebbanburg along the southern bank of the Tuede, which was the border between Northumbria and Constantine’s Alba.
‘Egil might have a hundred warriors?’ Domnall suggested, almost sounding sorry for me. ‘A hundred and fifty, perhaps? And they’re all rare fighters, but Egil’s not an ally to strike fear into a whole nation.’
‘Yet I dare say you sailed well clear of his coast on your way here?’
‘We did,’ Domnall admitted. ‘We sailed a good way offshore. No need to prod a wasps’ nest unnecessarily.’
‘What am I? A dung beetle?’
Domnall smiled at that. ‘You’re a great warrior with no strong allies,’ he said, ‘or do you think of Æthelstan as a friend?’ He paused, as if judging his next words before they were spoken. ‘A friend who breaks his oaths.’
And this meeting, I thought, was no different to Guthfrith talking with Constantine’s envoys. I had been angered when I learned of that, yet here I was, entertaining Domnall in my fortress. Æthelstan, I knew, would hear of this conversation. I was sure there were men in Bebbanburg who were paid to report to him, or else his spies in Constantine’s employment would make sure he heard. Which meant he must hear what I wanted him to hear. ‘King Æthelstan,’ I said harshly, ‘has broken no oaths.’
‘No?’ Domnall enquired gently.
‘None,’ I said sharply.
Domnall leaned away from me and took a long pull of his ale. He cuffed his mouth and beard with his sleeve, then nodded at the small priest next to him. ‘Father Coluim?’
‘A little more than a month ago,’ the priest said in his surprisingly deep voice, ‘on the feast day of Saint Christina, virgin and
