‘You’re selling her?’ Egil sounded surprised.
‘No one talks of ships in Valhalla,’ I said softly.
‘There’ll be ships in Valhalla, my friend,’ he said, ‘and wide seas, strong winds, and islands of beautiful women.’
I smiled, then turned as I heard footsteps behind us. I had instinctively put my hand to Serpent-Breath’s hilt, then saw it was Anlaf who followed us and who, seeing my hand on the sword, spread his own hands to show he meant no harm. He was alone. The moon was shining between clouds and reflected from his pale eyes, from the gold at his neck, and from the dull metal of his sword’s hilt. No fancy decoration on that sword. It was a tool and men said he knew how to use it. ‘Egil Skallagrimmrson,’ he greeted us, ‘you must come to Dyflin.’
‘I must, lord King?’
‘We like poets! Music! And you, Lord Uhtred, should come too.’
‘I’m no poet and you don’t want to hear me sing.’
He smiled thinly at that. ‘I wanted to talk with you.’ He gestured at a lump of rock beside the track. ‘You’ll sit with me?’
We sat. For a moment Anlaf said nothing, but looked towards Spearhafoc. ‘Your ship?’ he broke the silence.
‘Mine, lord King.’
‘She looks useful,’ he said grudgingly. ‘Frisian?’
‘Frisian,’ I confirmed.
‘What is Æthelstan doing?’ he asked abruptly.
‘Punishing the Scots.’
‘For what?’
‘Being Scottish.’
He nodded. ‘How many men?
‘At least two thousand, probably more.’
‘How many men can he raise?’
I shrugged because the question was probably unanswerable. ‘Four thousand? More if he raises the fyrd.’
‘More,’ Egil said. ‘He could lead five thousand warriors without the fyrd.’
‘I agree,’ Anlaf said. ‘He put a thousand men into Ceaster and Mameceaster,’ he said the unfamiliar names carefully, ‘and has a fleet in the Mærse. That, I think, is why Constantine moved his ships. He expected an invasion of Cumbria.’
‘And instead Æthelstan invaded in the east.’
‘What will happen?’ The pale eyes gazed into mine.
‘Who knows, lord King?’
He nodded abruptly. ‘Suppose Constantine survives? What then?’
‘The Scots are a proud people,’ I said, ‘and savage. They’ll want revenge.’
‘Does Æthelstan wish to rule the Scots?’
I thought about that, then shook my head. ‘He claims Northumbria, that’s all, and he wants them to leave Cumbria.’
Anlaf frowned, thinking. ‘Constantine won’t fight now, not unless Æthelstan makes a bad mistake. He’ll retreat into his hills. He’ll take his punishment. There’ll be skirmishes, of course, and men will die, but Constantine will wait. If Æthelstan follows him into the hills he’ll find himself in bad country with too many enemies and not enough food, so he’ll be forced to retreat. Then one day soon Constantine will lead an army into Æthelstan’s lands, and that,’ he paused and looked into my eyes, ‘that will be the end of Englaland.’
‘Maybe,’ I said dubiously, ‘but Æthelstan can always raise more warriors than Constantine.’
‘Can he?’ Anlaf paused, and when I gave no answer he offered his thin smile. ‘Constantine wants something more than Cumbria,’ he spoke quietly, ‘he wants to destroy Saxon power, and to do that he will welcome allies.’
‘The Norse,’ I said flatly.
‘The Norse, the Danes, the pagans. Us. Think about it, lord! Æthelstan hates the pagans, he wants them destroyed and gone from his land. But Constantine is shrewder. He knows our power and he needs power. He needs shields and swords and spears, and he’s ready to pay for them with Saxon land. One king despises us, the other welcomes us, so who will we Northmen fight for?’
‘Constantine,’ I said bleakly, ‘but you think he’d welcome you after he’s won? He’s a Christian too.’
Anlaf ignored my question. ‘Æthelstan has one chance now, just one, and that is to slaughter every man north of Cair Ligualid, to scour the Scots off the face of the earth, but he won’t do that because it can’t be done, and even if it could, his feeble religion would tell him it’s a sin. But he can’t do it. He doesn’t have enough men, so he talks of punishing the Scots, but punishment doesn’t work, only destruction. He’ll burn some villages, kill a few men, claim victory and retreat. And then the north will come down on him like a pack of hungry wolves.’
I thought of the dragon and the falling star and of Father Cuthbert’s dire prophecy that the evil would come from the north. ‘So you’ll fight for Constantine?’
‘He knows I want Northumbria. Eventually he’ll offer it to me.’
‘Why would Constantine want a pagan Norse king on his southern frontier?’ I asked.
‘Because such a king would be better than a Saxon who calls himself Lord of all Britain. And because Constantine recognises my claim to Northumbria. And I do have a claim,’ he looked at me fiercely, ‘an even better claim now that Guthfrith is dead.’
‘Is that a thank you?’ I asked, amused.
Anlaf stood. ‘It is a warning,’ he said coldly. ‘When the northern wolves come, Lord Uhtred, choose your side carefully.’ He nodded to Egil. ‘You too, Egil Skallagrimmrson.’ He looked up at the sky, judging the wind. ‘You say Æthelstan’s fleet is coming north?’
‘They are.’
‘This far?’
‘As far as Æthelstan wants them to go.’
‘Then I’d best sail home tomorrow. We’ll meet again.’ He said no more, but walked back towards Thorfinn’s settlement.
I watched him go. I was thinking of King Hywel’s words that Anlaf had just echoed; to choose my side well. ‘Why is he here?’ I asked.
‘Recruiting,’ Egil said. ‘He’s raising an army of the north and he’ll offer it to Constantine.’
‘And he wants you.’
‘He wants you too, my friend. Are you tempted?’
Of course I was tempted. A pagan Northumbria was a beguiling prospect, a country where any man could worship his gods without fear of a Christian sword at his neck, but a pagan Northumbria would still have Christians to the north and to the south, and neither Constantine nor Æthelstan would endure that for long. Nor did I trust Anlaf. Once he had seen Bebbanburg he would want it. ‘All I want,’ I told Egil, ‘is to die in Bebbanburg.’
Anlaf’s grandfather Guthrum had failed to
