‘They are frightened of you, lord King.’ Ingilmundr said.
Æthelstan rewarded that with a warm smile. He loved the flattery, and Ingilmundr was adept at supplying it. He was oily, I thought, like the feel of raw seal flesh. ‘He should be frightened of me,’ Æthelstan said, ‘and after this campaign I hope he’ll be even more frightened!’
‘Or angry,’ I said.
‘Of course he’ll be angry,’ Æthelstan showed a flash of annoyance. ‘Angry, frightened, and chastened.’
‘And vengeful,’ I persisted.
Æthelstan gazed at me for a few heartbeats, then sighed. ‘What can he do? I’m deep in his land and he refuses to fight. You think he can do better in my land? If he takes one step beyond the frontier I’ll crush him and he knows it. I have more spears, more swords, and more silver. He can be as vengeful as he likes, but he’s also impotent. I will have peace in Britain, Lord Uhtred, and Constantine is learning the price he will pay for disturbing that peace.’
‘Do you have more men, lord King?’ Egil asked in a mild voice.
‘I do,’ Æthelstan said flatly.
‘And if Constantine unites your enemies? The Norse of the islands, the Danish settlers, the men of Strath Clota, and the Irish kingdoms? You would still have more men?’
‘That will not happen,’ Ingilmundr responded to Egil.
‘Why not?’ Egil asked in a very polite voice.
‘When did we Norse ever unite?’
That was a good question and Egil acknowledged it with a slight bow of his head. The Northmen, both Danes and Norse, were fearsome fighters, but notoriously quarrelsome.
‘Besides,’ Æthelstan went on, ‘Constantine is a Christian. He told me once that his ambition is to retire to a monastery! No, lord, he won’t rely on pagan swords. All he would achieve by asking Norse help is to invite more pagan enemies into his land and though he might be treacherous, he’s no fool.’ He frowned momentarily. ‘And what would Constantine gain by allying himself with the Norse? They’ll want a reward! What will he give them? Land?’
‘Northumbria,’ I said quietly.
‘Nonsense,’ Æthelstan said decisively. ‘Constantine wants Northumbria for himself! Why in God’s name would he put a Norse king on the throne in Eoferwic?’
‘Because he wants something more than Northumbria,’ I said.
‘What?’
‘The destruction of Saxon power, lord King. Your power.’
I think he knew I spoke the truth, but he dismissed it lightly. ‘Then he’ll just have to learn that Saxon power is indestructible,’ he said carelessly, ‘because I will settle his nonsense and I will have my peace.’
‘And I will have Bebbanburg,’ I said.
He ignored that, though Ingilmundr gave me a poisonous glance. ‘We march tomorrow,’ Æthelstan said, ‘so we must rest tonight.’ He stood, prompting all of us to stand.
That was our dismissal. I bowed, but Egil had one more question. ‘March where, lord King?’ he asked.
‘Further north, of course!’ Æthelstan answered, his good mood restored. ‘To the far north! I will show Constantine that there is no part of his kingdom that I cannot reach. Tomorrow we go to the end of his realm, to the far northern end of Britain!’
So the Monarchus Totius Brittaniae was proving his title to be true. His spears would glint from the beaches of Wessex to the cliffs of the cold north, and Æthelstan believed that thereby he was stamping his authority on a sullen, rebellious land. But the Scots would not fight him, not yet, and so they had retreated into their mountains where they were watching, waiting, and dreaming of revenge.
And I remembered Anlaf’s cold, pale eyes.
Choose your side carefully.
PART THREE
The Slaughter
Eleven
Æthelstan’s army reached the northern coast of Scotland where great waves shattered on towering cliffs, where the sea birds shrieked and eagles flew, and where the wind blew cold and fierce. There was no battle. Scottish scouts watched Æthelstan’s army, but Constantine kept his troops far off to the west. It was a bleak, unfriendly land, and the unceasing wind brought the first hints of winter cold.
We stayed with the fleet, though to what end I could not tell because no ships challenged us. Æthelstan’s army had marched and the fleet had sailed to the northern edge of Constantine’s land and we had butchered cattle, burned fishing boats, stolen paltry stores of grain, and torn down pathetic turf-roofed hovels. And here, where the land ended in jagged cliffs, Æthelstan declared victory. I went ashore at the land’s end and Æthelstan invited me to what he proclaimed was a feast, though in truth it was a score of men in a wind-lashed tent eating gristly beef and drinking sour ale. My son was among the guests. ‘It’s a miserable country,’ he told me, ‘cold, wet and poor.’
‘They wouldn’t fight you?’
‘Skirmishes,’ he said scornfully, ‘but nothing more.’
Æthelstan overheard his comments. ‘I offered them battle,’ he called across the table, ‘I planted the hazel rods.’
‘I thought only the Northmen did that, lord King.’
‘Constantine’s scouts saw us do it. They know what it means! And Constantine didn’t dare show his face.’
It was an old custom, brought to Britain by the men in dragon-ships. To plant the hazel rods was to choose a battle place and invite your enemy to come and fight. But Constantine, I thought, was too clever to accept the invitation. He knew Æthelstan’s army outnumbered his and so he would give the Saxons their easy victory and hold his forces back for another day. And so the ground between the hazel rods stayed empty.
And we went south.
I let Spearhafoc run, leaving Æthelstan’s fleet lumbering far behind, and then on a cold autumn day there was the blessed moment of rounding Lindisfarena’s sands and slipping back into Bebbanburg’s harbour. Benedetta waited for me, the great hall was warmed by a massive driftwood fire, and I was home.
Three weeks later Æthelstan’s army marched past the fortress. There had been no battle, but he was still ebullient when I met
