‘Your gold?’ Ealdred said belligerently. ‘It’s Northumbria’s gold!’ He must have been thinking that we really were a Scottish war-band.
I pushed the cheek-pieces aside and hauled the helmet off. I tossed it to Aldwyn. ‘My gold, you rancid little turd.’
‘Lord Uhtred,’ Ealdred breathed the two words.
‘It’s yours,’ I said, beckoning at the packhorses. ‘Take it!’ Neither man moved. Guthfrith, his broad face sour, took a pace backwards, bumping into one of the packhorses. I saw he wore a silver cross, the price of being allowed to stay on his throne, and he raised his hand to touch the amulet, then realised there was no hammer there and the hand went still. ‘Take it!’ I said again and half drew Serpent-Breath as a threat.
Ealdred did not move, just stared at me with a mixture of fear and loathing, but Guthfrith turned, lifted the bag’s leather flap and found only stones. ‘There is no gold,’ I said, letting Serpent-Breath fall back into her scabbard.
Ealdred glanced around my warriors and saw nothing but mocking faces and bloodied swords. ‘King Æthelstan will know of this,’ he said.
‘King Æthelstan will hear that you broke the truce and crossed the river onto my land, and that a Scottish raiding party found you.’
‘He won’t believe that,’ Ealdred said.
‘He’s believed enough other nonsense!’ I snapped. ‘He believes I’m his enemy? He believes the Scots will endure his claim of kingship over all Britain? Your king has become a fool. He’s allowed the crown to curdle his brains.’ I drew Serpent-Breath, the long blade making a small sound as she slid through the fleece at the scabbard’s throat.
‘No,’ Ealdred said. He understood what was about to happen. ‘No!’ he protested again.
‘You call yourself the Lord of Bebbanburg,’ I said, ‘yet you have raided Bebbanburg’s lands, burned its steadings, and stolen its cattle. You are Bebbanburg’s enemy.’
‘No, lord, no!’ He was shaking.
‘You want Bebbanburg?’ I asked him. ‘Then I will give your head a niche on the Skull Gate where my enemies will stare at the sea till the final chaos.’
‘No—’ he began, then stopped, because I had slammed Serpent-Breath forward, piercing his shining mail, scraping on a rib, and bursting his heart. He fell back against the packhorse and slid to the pale turf, jerking, making a choking noise, hands scrabbling feebly at his chest before one last spasm. Then he was still, except for his hands slowly curling.
Guthfrith had taken a step away from his companion. He watched Ealdred die, then as I put a boot on the dead man’s chest and tugged Serpent-Breath free. His eyes went from her reddened blade to my face, then back to the blade. ‘I’ll tell Æthelstan it was the Scots!’ he said.
‘You take me for a fool?’
He stared at me. He was terrified, but he was brave enough at that moment. He tried to speak, failed, and cleared his throat. ‘Lord,’ he pleaded, ‘a sword, please.’
‘You made me kneel to you,’ I said, ‘so now you kneel.’
‘A sword, please!’ There were tears in his eyes. If he died without a sword he would never reach Valhalla.
‘Kneel!’ He knelt. I looked at my men. ‘One of you give him a seax.’
Vidarr drew his short blade and handed it to Guthfrith who gripped the hilt with both hands. He rested the blade’s tip on the grass and looked up at me with wet eyes. He wanted to say something, but could only shiver. Then I killed him. One day I will see him in Valhalla.
I had lied to Ealdred. I would not put his skull on Bebbanburg’s gate, though Guthfrith’s would have a place there. I had other plans for Ealdred.
But first we pulled down the wall that Finan had made and we heaped the bodies of our enemies, all but for Ealdred’s corpse, onto the piled logs and burned them. The smoke drifted high into the windless air. We took off Ealdred’s mail, his boots, his cross, anything of value, wrapped his corpse in cloaks and took it back to Bebbanburg where the body was placed in a coffin with a cross on its breast, and I sent it to Eoferwic, a city without a king now. And with the corpse I sent a letter, which regretted Ealdred’s death at the hands of a Scottish war-band. I addressed the letter to Æthelstan, Monarchus Totius Brittaniae.
And waited to see what the monarch of all Britain would do next.
Constantine denied the attack on Ealdred and Guthfrith, but he also denied that he was fomenting trouble in Cumbria, which he was, and Æthelstan knew it. Constantine had even named one of his war chiefs, Eochaid, as the ruler of Cumbria. Some said Eochaid was Constantine’s son, others that he was a nephew, but he was certainly a subtle and ruthless young man who by bribery, cunning and some slaughter had obtained the loyalty of Cumbria’s Norsemen. Æthelstan had named Godric and Alfgar as his Cumbrian ealdormen, but neither dared ride the hills without at least a hundred warriors, which meant that even Burgham, where Æthelstan had tried to impose his authority on all Britain, was now effectively ruled by Constantine.
So Constantine’s protests that he had not launched the attack fell on sceptical ears in Wessex, but still there were rumours and Æthelstan was determined to discover the truth. He sent a priest all the way from Wintanceaster, a stern, raw-faced man named Father Swithun who was accompanied by three younger priests, all carrying satchels containing ink, quills, and parchment. Father Swithun was polite enough, asking permission to enter Bebbanburg and frankly admitting his purpose. ‘I have been charged with discovering the truth of Lord Ealdred’s death,’ he told me. I think he half expected me to refuse him entrance, but instead I welcomed the priests, gave them housing, bedding, stabling, food and a promise to tell them whatever I knew.
‘Yet, lord, you will not swear that
