I touched the hammer and thought how I needed Thor to send a great hammer blow down onto the men gathering at the end of the sandy neck leading to the Skull Gate. None had yet ventured onto the track, but then a dozen servants leading two packhorses came towards the gate. They stopped well out of bowshot and, as we watched, they unpacked a tent that they hurried to erect, suspending a gorgeous cloth of scarlet and gold from four tall poles. Pegs were driven deep into the sand, lines tightened, while three more servants carried rugs and chairs into the shadowed interior. Last of all two standard-bearers brought their flags, one the West Saxon dragon and the other Æthelstan’s own banner, and they drove the poles deep into the sand either side of the tent’s open doorway that faced the gate. Æthelstan, mounted on his big grey stallion, gazed out to sea as he waited for his servants to finish their task.
The servants walked away. A small wind stirred the flags and ruffled the sea, making the ships pull hurriedly away from the lee shore. Then Æthelstan dismounted and, accompanied by a single priest, walked to the tent. ‘That’s Bishop Oda,’ Finan said.
Æthelstan paused at the tent’s open doorway, turned and looked up to where I stood over the Skull Gate, and gave an ironic bow. Then he and Oda disappeared inside. ‘Two of them,’ I told Finan, ‘so two of us.’
‘Maybe he will kill you!’ Benedetta sounded alarmed.
‘Finan and me? Against a king and a bishop?’ I kissed her. ‘Pray for their souls, amore.’
‘Call the devil!’ Alaina urged excitedly.
‘Pray we don’t need him,’ I grunted, then went down the steps to find my son. ‘If men approach the tent,’ I told him, ‘send the same number out of the gate.’ I nodded to Redbad. ‘Open it up!’
The great bar was lifted, the bolts creaked back and the two heavy gates were pushed open.
And Finan and I went to meet the king.
I wore mail and had Serpent-Breath at my side. My boots were stained with dung from the outer courtyard where the villagers had driven their livestock. I was sweating. I must have stunk like a cornered marten. I grinned.
‘What’s funny?’ Finan asked dourly.
‘We’re cornered, aren’t we?’
‘And that’s funny?’
‘Better to laugh than weep.’
Finan kicked a loose stone that skittered across the sand. ‘We’re not dead yet,’ he sounded dubious.
‘You’ll like Wiltunscir,’ I said. ‘Plump orchards, pretty women, fat cows, rich pasture.’
‘You’re full of shit,’ he said, ‘and smell like it too.’
We fell silent as we approached the lavish tent. I ducked under the low doorway first and saw Æthelstan lounging long-legged in an ornate chair. He was sipping a glass of wine. It had to be Roman glass because it was so delicate. He smiled and waved a hand towards two empty chairs. ‘Welcome, lord,’ he said.
I bowed. ‘Lord king,’ I said politely, then nodded to Bishop Oda who sat straight-backed to Æthelstan’s right. ‘Lord bishop,’ I greeted him and Oda inclined his head, but said nothing.
‘Finan!’ Æthelstan greeted the Irishman happily. ‘Always a pleasure to see your ugly face.’
‘It’s a mutual pleasure, lord King,’ Finan responded with a perfunctory bow. ‘You want us to leave our swords outside?’
‘Finan the Irishman without a sword? It wouldn’t be natural. Sit, please. We have no servants with us so help yourself to the wine.’ He waved at a table on which there was wine, more glass goblets, and a silver dish of almonds.
I sat, hearing the chair creak under my weight. Æthelstan sipped wine again. He wore a simple gold circlet over his long dark hair which, for once, had no golden wires twisted into his ringlets. His mail was polished, he wore long boots of soft black leather, his gloved fingers had rings of gold studded with emeralds and rubies. He gazed back at me, evidently amused, and I thought, as I always did when I met him, how handsome he had become as a man. A long face, wide-set blue eyes, a strong nose and a firm mouth, which seemed to hover on the brink of a grin. ‘It is strange, is it not,’ he broke the silence, ‘how trouble always comes from the north?’
‘Ours seems to come from the south,’ I grumbled.
He ignored that. ‘Cent? No trouble there, not for a long while. East Anglia? It’s accepted I am its king. Mercia is loyal. Even Cornwalum is quiet! The Welsh probably dislike us, but they make no trouble. Peace and prosperity wherever I look!’ He paused to take an almond. ‘Until I look north.’
‘How many times have I told you that the Scots can’t be trusted, lord King?’
That was rewarded with a wry smile. ‘And can the Northumbrians be trusted?’ Æthelstan asked.
‘I seem to remember that Northumbrians fought for you.’
‘Which doesn’t answer the question. Can Northumbrians be trusted?’
I looked into his eyes. ‘I have never broken an oath to you, lord King.’
He looked at me with what seemed amusement. If I was a cornered marten, stinking and in peril, then he was the threat. He was the greater predator. ‘Since Guthfrith died,’ he broke the short silence, ‘Northumbria has been in chaos.’
‘It was in chaos before he died,’ I said sharply. ‘My steadings were being burned, and your friend Constantine was filling Cumbria with his troops.’
‘My friend?’
‘Didn’t he swear you an oath?’
‘Oaths are not what they were,’ Æthelstan said carelessly.
‘So you’re teaching me, lord King,’ I said harshly.
He did not like my tone and rewarded it with a bitter question. ‘Why didn’t you tell me Constantine sent emissaries to you?’
‘I’m supposed to tell you every time I have visitors?’
‘He offered you an alliance,’ Æthelstan said, his tone still bitter.
‘And offered it again last month.’
He nodded. ‘A man called Troels Knudson, yes?’
‘From Eochaid.’
‘And what did you answer Troels Knudson, lord?’
‘You already know,’ I said harshly. I paused. ‘You know, and yet, lord King, you are here.’
‘With eighteen hundred men! And the crews of the ships. Will they be
