War Lord

could invite the overseas Norse to intervene. It was better, far better, to convert the Northmen, and the fastest way to do that was to convert their leaders. It had worked in both East Anglia and Mercia so that the Danes who had settled in those lands were now kneeling to the nailed god, and some of them, like Bishop Oda, were rising in the church. I did not doubt that Æthelstan wanted Guthfrith dead, but killing him would only invite another member of his family to claim the throne and that would likely be Anlaf, the Norseman whose ships covered the sea and whose armies had conquered almost all his Irish rivals. It was better for Æthelstan to keep the weak Guthfrith on the throne, to force him to be baptised, to garrison his country with loyal Saxon troops, and to weaken his authority by demanding rich payments of tribute silver.

‘And why,’ I asked, ‘did Guthfrith send you to follow me?’

Hobern hesitated, but I shifted the small knife so it hovered near his eyes. ‘He hates you, lord.’

‘So?’

Another hesitation, another shift of the blade. ‘He wants you dead, lord.’

‘Because I stopped him from reaching Constantine of Scotland?’

‘Because he hates you, lord.’

‘Does Æthelstan want me dead?’

He looked surprised at that question, then shrugged. ‘He didn’t say so, lord.’

‘Guthfrith didn’t say so?’

‘He said that you were to pay him tribute, lord.’

‘Me? Pay that turd tribute?’

Hobern shrugged as if to suggest he was not responsible for his answer. ‘King Æthelstan said that Bebbanburg is in Guthfrith’s realm and that you should swear loyalty to Guthfrith. He said your lands could make Guthfrith wealthy.’

‘So Guthfrith must make war on me?’

‘He must demand tribute, lord.’

And if I refused to pay, which I would, Guthfrith would take what he claimed I owed him in cattle. That would mean war between Eoferwic and Bebbanburg, a war that would weaken both of us and give Æthelstan the excuse to intervene as a peacemaker. ‘Who was the archer last night?’ I asked suddenly.

‘Last night?’ Hobern asked, then flinched as I pricked the skin beneath his left eye with the knife’s point. ‘Kolfinn, lord,’ he muttered.

‘Kolfinn!’ I sounded surprised, but in truth I had half expected it would be the angry young man who had accused me of cowardice.

‘He’s Guthfrith’s chief huntsman,’ Hobern muttered.

‘Did Guthfrith order my death?’

‘I don’t know, lord.’ He flinched again. ‘I don’t know!’

I pulled the knife back an inch. ‘Guthfrith received envoys from Constantin, didn’t he?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, lord.’

‘And what did Constantine want? Guthfrith’s alliance?’

Again he nodded. ‘Yes, lord.’

‘And Constantine would keep Guthfrith on the throne?’

Hobern hesitated, then saw the knife blade flicker. ‘No, lord.’

‘No?’

‘He promised Guthfrith he could have Bebbanburg.’

‘Bebbanburg,’ I repeated flatly.

He nodded. ‘Constantine promised him that.’

I stood, cursing the twinge in my knees. ‘Then Guthfrith is a fool,’ I said savagely. ‘Constantine has wanted Bebbanburg for ever. You think he’d yield it to Guthfrith?’ I sheathed the knife and walked a few paces away. Was I surprised? Constantine had sent Domnall to Bebbanburg with the offer of a generous treaty, but that offer simply hid the greater ambition to rule Northumbria, and as a generation of Northmen had discovered, to rule Northumbria you needed to possess its greatest fortress. If Guthfrith had allied himself to Constantine then he would have been dead in days and my great fortress would fly the flag of Alba.

‘So what have you learned?’ Finan had followed me.

‘To trust no one.’

‘Oh, that’s useful,’ he said caustically.

‘They all want Bebbanburg. All of them.’

‘So what do you want?’

‘To settle a quarrel,’ I said angrily. ‘Did you bring that bastard’s sword?’

‘Kolfinn’s sword? Here.’ He held the sword out to me.

‘Give it to him.’

‘But …’

‘Give it to him.’ I stalked back towards the disconsolate prisoners. Kolfinn was the only one wearing mail, but he was soaked through, shivering in the gusting wind that was slashing rain from the east. ‘You called me a coward,’ I snarled at him, ‘so take your sword.’

He looked nervously from me to Finan, then took the sword that the Irishman held out to him.

I drew Serpent-Breath. I was angry, not with Kolfinn, nor even with Guthfrith, but with myself for not recognising what was so damned obvious. There was Englaland, almost formed, there was Alba, with its ambition to rule still more territory, and between them was Northumbria, neither pagan nor Christian, neither Scottish nor Ænglisc, and soon it must be one or the other. Which meant I had to fight whether I wanted to or not.

But for now there was a lesser fight, and one, I thought, that would assuage the larger anger. ‘You called me a coward,’ I accused Kolfinn, ‘and you challenged me. I accept your challenge.’ I stepped fast towards him, then checked and took a pace backwards. He had retreated and I saw how his waterlogged boots had slowed him and so I went at him again, cutting Serpent-Breath in a wide, wild swing that he raised his blade to parry, but I had stepped away before the blades could meet and his parry faded. ‘Is that the best you can do?’ I taunted him. ‘How did you get those arm rings? Fighting against children?’

‘You’re dead, old man,’ he said and came for me. He was fast and he came for me as wildly as I’d seemed to go for him, he attacked so fast and so wildly that I was hard put to parry his first massive cut, but his sodden clothing made him clumsy. I was rain-soaked, but not as wet as Kolfinn, who grimaced as he swung again and I encouraged him by stepping back, pretending his savage assault was driving me away and I saw the joy come to his face as he anticipated being the man who had defeated Uhtred of Bebbanburg. He wanted the fight over quickly now, he gritted his teeth and stepped towards me and grunted as he swept his blade in a gut-slicing blow, and I stepped inside it and punched Serpent-Breath’s hilt