I was thinking about oaths, about the tense atmosphere in the sprawling encampment where squads of heavily armed spearmen were needed to keep the peace, about the things Fraomar had not wanted to say, and about being instructed to arrive at Burgham days after other men had been summoned. I was thinking about Æthelstan. The last time I had seen him he had thanked me for giving him Lundene, he had praised me in the hall and roused the cheers of men, and with Lundene had come his emerald crown, but since that far-off day he had sent me no messages nor offered me any favours. I had given men hacksilver for building me a shelter, yet my reward for giving a man a kingdom was to be ignored.
Wyrd bið ful ãræd.
Fate is inexorable.
The sermon had ended, the men were dispersing to their huts, while a band of monks, dark-robed and hooded, walked through the encampments chanting. The leading monk carried a lantern and a dozen men followed him, their voices low and haunting. ‘Christian magic?’ Thorolf asked sourly.
‘They’re just praying for a peaceful night,’ Finan said, making the sign of the cross.
The monks did not come close to our shelters, but turned back towards the fires that had lit the evening sermon. Their voices grew fainter, then a peal of women’s laughter sounded from the Welsh encampment. Egil sighed. ‘Why didn’t we bring our own women?’
‘Because we didn’t need to,’ Finan said, ‘every whore between Cair Ligualid and Mameceaster is here.’
‘Ah!’ Egil grinned. ‘Then why am I sharing a shelter with you three?’
‘You can use that spinney instead,’ I said, nodding south towards a dark group of trees that lay between us and the Welsh encampment.
And saw the arrow.
It was a flicker in the night’s flame-lit dark, a sudden spark as fire glittered quick from a steel head and from pale feathers, and it was coming towards us. I thrust left at Finan, right at Egil and threw myself flat, and the arrow seared across my left shoulder, catching my cloak. ‘Move!’ I shouted, and the four of us scrambled away from the fire, going towards shadows as a second arrow slashed through the darkness to bury itself in the turf. ‘To me!’ I yelled. I was safely behind a shelter now, hidden from the archer who had loosed his arrows from among the spinney’s dark trees.
Egil, Thorolf and Finan ran to me. My men were leaving their shelters, coming to discover what had caused me to shout. ‘Who has weapons?’ I asked. A chorus of voices answered and, without waiting, I shouted at them to follow me.
I ran towards the spinney. I swerved to my left first, hoping not to be outlined against the bright fires, but knew I would be seen despite that small precaution. But there was, I thought, just one bowman, because if there had been two or more then we would have been attacked by a volley, not by a single arrow. I was also sure that whoever had loosed the arrow would already have fled. He must have seen a score of men coming, seen our swords reflecting the flame-light, and unless he was intent on dying he would be gone, but I still kept running. ‘Bebbanburg!’ I shouted, and my men took up the war cry.
We were still shouting as we crashed into the spinney’s undergrowth, trampling brambles and saplings. No more arrows came and the noise slowly died. I stopped in the shadow of a thick trunk. ‘What were we shouting about?’ Berg asked.
‘This,’ Finan said, and tugged the arrow that was still caught in my cloak. He ripped it free and held it into the light. ‘Christ, that’s a long arrow!’
‘Get into shadow,’ I told him. ‘All of you.’
‘Bastard’s long gone,’ he growled, ‘he can’t see us.’
There was no moon, but our campfires and the flames from the Welsh encampment cast plenty of sullen red light among the trees. I started laughing. ‘What?’ Egil asked.
‘We’re not supposed to carry weapons,’ I said, and gestured at the men in the trees, all of whom were carrying swords or axes, while still more of our men were streaming towards us from the shelters and all carrying their bright weapons.
Egil led some of his men to the southern edge of the trees, but went no further. The Norsemen just stood there, gazing into the night, searching for an archer who had been swallowed in the darkness. Finan hefted the missile. ‘This isn’t from a short bow,’ he said dourly.
‘No.’
‘It’s a hunting arrow.’ He ran his fingers over the feather fletching. ‘From one of those big bows that the Welsh use.’
‘Some Saxons use them.’
‘But rarely.’ He flinched as he tested the arrowhead. ‘Newly sharpened too. The earsling wanted you dead.’
I shivered as I remembered that flicker of light in the darkness, and that darkness was lessening because men, attracted by the noise, were running towards the spinney carrying flaming torches. The Welsh were closest and they came first, led by a huge man swathed in a fur cloak and carrying a mighty war axe. He barked an angry question in his own language and seemed unperturbed when my men raised swords to confront him, but before anyone could strike a blow a tall, bald-headed priest pushed the man aside. The priest stared at me. ‘Lord Uhtred,’ he said, sounding amused. ‘Does trouble follow you?’
‘It finds me, Father Anwyn,’ I said, ‘and it’s good to see you.’
‘Bishop Anwyn now,’ he responded, then spoke sharply to the huge man, who reluctantly lowered his formidable axe. Anwyn looked around the spinney, now crowded with my men and lit brightly by the torches the Welshmen carried. He smiled as he counted the hammer amulets. ‘I see you still keep bad company,
