‘Who knows? Æthelstan’s, I suppose.’
‘And Hywel’s here!’ Finan said. ‘I thought he was in Rome.’
‘He’s been and come back,’ I said, ‘or he’s about to go. Who knows? The Welsh are here anyway.’
‘And where’s our banner?’
‘At Bebbanburg,’ I said, ‘I forgot it.’
‘I brought two of mine,’ Egil said happily.
‘Then fly one of them now,’ I said. I wanted Æthelstan to see a three-sided flag showing the dark eagle of a pagan Norse chieftain coming to his encampment.
We splashed through the ford to be met by the West Saxons guarding Guthfrith’s tents. ‘Who are you?’ A sour-looking warrior held up a hand to check us.
‘Egil Skallagrimmrson.’
I had mischievously asked Egil to lead us across the river. On either side of him were his Norse warriors, while Finan and I hung back. We waited in the ford, the water rippling around our stallions’ fetlocks.
‘And where are you going?’ the sour man demanded curtly.
‘Wherever I want,’ Egil said, ‘this is my country.’ He spoke Ænglisc well, most of it learned from the Saxon girls who were willingly seduced, but now he was deliberately making his words awkward as though they were unfamiliar.
‘You only come here if you’re invited. And I don’t think you are.’ The surly man had been reinforced by a dozen West Saxon spearmen holding Æthelstan’s shields. Some of Guthfrith’s men had assembled behind them, eager for whatever entertainment seemed imminent, while more West Saxon men were hurrying towards the confrontation.
‘I’m going there,’ Egil pointed southwards.
‘You’re turning around and you’re going back where you came from,’ the sour-faced man said, ‘all of you and all the way back. Back to your damned country across the sea.’ His small force was growing by the minute and, in the way that rumours spread like smoke, still more men were coming from the Saxon encampment to swell his ranks. ‘Turn around,’ the man said slowly and insultingly, as if speaking to a stubborn child, ‘and bugger off.’
‘No,’ I said, and pushed my horse between Egil and his standard-bearer.
‘And who are you, grandpa?’ the man asked belligerently, hefting his spear.
‘Kill the old fool!’ One of Guthfrith’s men shouted, ‘cut the old fool down!’ His companions began jeering me, emboldened perhaps by the presence of Æthelstan’s guards. The man who had shouted was young with long fair hair that he wore in a thick plait. He pushed his way through the West Saxons and stared insolently at me. ‘I challenge you,’ he snarled.
There are always fools who want reputation, and killing me was a swift route to warrior-fame. The young man was doubtless a good warrior, he looked strong, he evidently had courage, his forearms were bright with rings that he had taken in battle, and he yearned for the renown that would follow my death. More, he was emboldened by the press of men behind him who were shouting at me to dismount and fight. ‘Who are you?’ I asked him.
‘I am Kolfinn, son of Hæfnir,’ he replied, ‘and I serve Guthfrith of Northumbria.’
I suspected he had been with Guthfrith when I had barred the escape to Scotland and Kolfinn Hæfnirson now wanted to avenge that humiliation. He had challenged me and custom decreed I must answer the challenge. ‘Kolfinn, son of Hæfnir,’ I said, ‘I have not heard of you, yet I know of all the warriors of Britain who have reputation. But what I do not know is why I should bother to kill you. What is your cause, Kolfinn, son of Hæfnir? What is our quarrel?’
He looked bemused for a heartbeat. He had a blunt face with a well-broken nose, and the gold and silver arm rings suggested he was a young warrior who had survived and won many fights, but what he did not have was a sword, or indeed any weapon. Only the West Saxons under the command of the sour-faced man carried spears or swords. ‘Well,’ I demanded, ‘what is our quarrel?’
‘You must not—’ the sour-faced West Saxon began, but I cut him off with a gesture.
‘What is our quarrel, Kolfinn, son of Hæfnir?’ I demanded again.
‘You are an enemy of my king,’ he shouted.
‘An enemy of your king? Then you would fight half of Britain!’
‘You are a coward,’ he spat at me, and stepped forward only to stop when Egil edged his stallion forward and drew his sword that he called Adder. Egil was smiling. The noisy crowd behind Kolfinn went silent and that did not surprise me. There is something about a smiling Norseman holding his beloved sword that will chill most warriors.
I pulled Egil back. ‘You have no quarrel with me, Kolfinn son of Hæfnir,’ I said, ‘but I now have a quarrel with you. And we shall settle the quarrel at a time and place of my choosing. That I promise you. Now make way for us.’
The West Saxon stepped forward, evidently feeling he should insist on his small authority. ‘If you’re not invited,’ he said, ‘you must leave.’
‘But he is invited,’ another man spoke. He had just joined the growing group of men barring our way and, like the man who had challenged us, had Æthelstan’s cross and lightning bolt on his shield. ‘And you, Cenwalh,’ he went on, looking at the sour-faced man, ‘are a slug-brained, idiot unless, of course, you want to fight Lord Uhtred? I’m certain he will oblige you.’
Cenwalh, disgruntled, muttered something under his breath, but lowered his spear and backed away as the newcomer bowed to me. ‘You’re welcome, lord. I assume you are summoned?’
‘I am. And you are?’
‘Fraomar Ceddson, lord, but most folk call me Freckles.’ I smiled at that because Fraomar Ceddson’s face was a mass of freckles slashed by a white scar and ringed by flaming red hair. He looked up at Egil. ‘I’d be grateful if you sheathed that sword,’ he said mildly, ‘the king has ordered
