I also heard the hooves behind me and glanced back to see that Finan had sent Berg and my son. ‘Stay behind me,’ I called to them. They had seen that Guthfrith and his two men had drawn swords and they too now pulled their long blades from their scabbards. Berg was behind and to my right, facing the man who held Hrothweard’s horse. My son was to my left, confronting the other warrior.
‘What—’ my son began to ask.
‘Say nothing!’ I said.
Guthfrith curbed his stallion just two or three paces from me. His plump face, framed by the steel of his helmet, glistened with sweat. His brother, the one-eyed Sigtryggr, had been a handsome man, but Guthfrith had drunk too much ale and eaten too much rich food so that he now sat heavy in the saddle. He had small, suspicious eyes, a flattened nose, and a long, plaited beard that hung down his elaborate mail. His horse had silver trappings, his helmet had a raven’s black wing on its crown, and his sword was now held at Hrothweard’s throat. ‘Lord Archbishop,’ I said in greeting.
‘Lord Uht—’ Hrothweard began, then stopped abruptly as Guthfrith pressed the blade’s edge against his gullet.
‘Address me first,’ Guthfrith growled at me. ‘I am your king.’
I looked at him and frowned. ‘Remind me of your name?’ I said, and heard my son chuckle.
‘You want this priest dead?’ Guthfrith asked angrily. The pressure of his sword was forcing Hrothweard to lean back in his saddle. His frightened eyes watching me over the grey blade.
‘Not particularly,’ I said carelessly, ‘I like him well enough.’
‘Well enough to beg for his life?’
I pretended to think about that question, then nodded. ‘I’ll beg for his life if you swear to release him, yes.’
Guthfrith sneered at that. ‘There will be a price,’ he said. I noticed how awkward Guthfrith looked. Hrothweard was on his left, and Guthfrith was holding the sword with his right hand.
‘There’s always a price,’ I said, taking a small step to my left, thus forcing Guthfrith to half turn his head away from Hrothweard. The sword wavered. ‘King Æthelstan,’ I said, ‘merely wishes to speak with you. He promises you both your life and your kingdom.’
‘Æthelstan,’ Guthfrith said, ‘is shit from a swine’s arsehole. He wants Northumbria.’
He was right, of course, at least about what Æthelstan wanted. ‘Æthelstan,’ I said, ‘keeps his promises.’ Yet in truth Æthelstan had betrayed me, he had broken his promise, yet here I was; doing just what he wanted.
‘He promised,’ Guthfrith said, ‘not to invade Northumbria while you lived, yet he’s here!’
‘He came to talk with you, nothing else.’
‘Maybe I should kill you. Maybe the little turd would like that.’
‘You can try,’ I said. My son’s horse stirred behind me, a hoof clicking against one of the road’s broken stones.
Guthfrith edged his horse towards me and swept the sword over and down so the blade was in front of me. ‘You have never sworn me an oath of loyalty, Lord Uhtred,’ he said, ‘yet I am your king.’
‘True,’ I said.
‘Then on your knees, Jarl Uhtred,’ he said, sneering at the word ‘jarl’, ‘and give me your sworn oath.’
‘And if I don’t?’
‘Then you will feed Boar Tusk.’ I assumed Boar Tusk was the name of his sword that was now close to my face. I could see the nicks in the sharpened edges, could feel the heat of the steel on my cheek, and was dazzled by the sun reflecting brilliant from the vague whorls in the hammered steel. ‘Down!’ Guthfrith commanded, jerking the blade.
I looked up into his small dark and suspicious eyes. ‘I shall demand the archbishop’s life in exchange for the oath,’ I said, ‘and the lives of the other hostages.’
‘You can demand nothing,’ he snarled, ‘nothing!’ He prodded the sword hard, grating its tip on my mail until it lodged in one of the links, forcing me back a half pace. ‘You will be my sworn man,’ he said, ‘and you will get only what I choose to give. Now down on your knees!’ He prodded again, harder.
There was a gasp of astonishment from my son as I knelt meekly and lowered my head. Guthfrith chuckled and held his sword’s tip close to my face. ‘Kiss the blade,’ he said, ‘and say the words.’
‘Lord King,’ I said humbly, and paused. My left hand found a stone about the size of a fist.
‘Louder!’ Guthfrith snarled.
‘Lord King,’ I said again, ‘I swear by Odin …’ and with that I brought the stone up and smashed it into the stallion’s mouth. I hit the snaffle, crushing the silver decoration, but the blow must have hurt because the horse reared and whinnied. Guthfrith’s sword vanished from my sight. ‘Now!’ I bellowed, though neither my son nor Berg needed the encouragement. Guthfrith was struggling to stay in the saddle of his rearing horse. I stood, cursing the pain in my knees, and seized his sword arm. My son was to my left, keeping that man distracted by thrusting a sword at his belly. I hauled on Guthfrith, pulled again, was jerked to my right by the stallion, but Guthfrith fell at last, crashing down onto the road and I wrenched his sword free, dropped on his belly with my knees, and held Boar Tusk’s blade at his straggling beard. ‘You’ll only get one oath from me, you miserable slime-toad,’ I snarled, ‘and that’s a promise to kill you.’
He lurched up and I forced the sword down hard, which stilled him.
And behind me Finan was charging. My men’s spears were lowered, the blades glittering in the harsh sun. Guthfrith’s men had been much slower to react, but now they were coming too.
And once again I was not certain I was fighting for the right side.
Two
Was it the wrong side?
I had no liking for Guthfrith. He was a drunken bully, a
