‘The tribute is late,’ Æthelstan said sternly. The king, his long hair again bright with gold-threaded ringlets, sat tall in the throne that had belonged to Sigtryggr.
‘It will come, lord King,’ the bishop said.
‘Soon.’
‘Soon,’ the bishop repeated.
I heard that the tribute was delivered to Cair Ligualid, though whether it was the full amount I did not hear. I had attended Æthelstan in Eoferwic and he had seemed pleased to see me, he teased me for my grey beard, was gracious to Benedetta, but otherwise ignored us. I left as soon as I could, returning to the sanctuary of Bebbanburg where the dream persisted, though not as frequently. I told Finan of the dream and he just laughed. ‘If you fight a dragon, lord, I promise to be beside you. And pity the poor beast. We’ll add its skull to the gate. That would be a fine thing to see, so it would.’
And in the next twelvemonth the dream faded. It still came, but rarely. There was a night at harvest time when Egil came to Bebbanburg and my warriors beat the tables and demanded a song and he gave them the story of Beowulf. And even that did not revive the dream. I sat and listened to the tale’s ending, how King Beowulf of the Geats, old and hoary, went to the deep barrow with his iron shield, and how he drew Nægling, his battle sword, and how the sword broke and how Beowulf, with one companion, then killed the beast with his seax, Bitter, and then was killed himself.
Warriors are sentimental. My men knew the story, yet they sat transfixed by its long telling, and there were tears when the end came. Egil struck deep chords on the harp, and his voice grew strong. ‘Swa begnornodon Geata leode, hlafordes hryre.’ I swear I saw men crying as Egil chanted the lines of mourning, how Beowulf’s men lamented their dead lord, saying that of all the kings he was the best, the most generous, the kindest and the most deserving of honour. And when the last chord was struck Egil winked at me and the hall resounded with cheers and table-beating. I thought the dream must come again that night, but it stayed away, and in the morning I felt Serpent-Breath’s hilt and was glad to be alive.
That was the dawn of a noise-day, an event my men always enjoyed. I had purchased horses in Eoferwic, thirty-five fine young stallions, and we took them to a stretch of sand just beyond the Skull Gate and there surrounded them. Many of the villagers came too, the women carrying pots and pans, the children overexcited, and then I gave the word and all of us began to make noise. And such a noise! Men beat swords together, clashed spear butts on shields, children shrieked, women beat pots together, all of us making a clangour fit to wake the dead in Bebbanburg’s graveyard that lay not fifty yards away. Egil was still with us and I cupped my hands to shout into his ear. ‘You should sing!’
‘Me? Sing? Why?’
‘The object is to frighten the horses!’
He laughed and bellowed insults instead. And we watched the animals. We ride horses into battle. Most times, of course, we make a shield wall and the horses are kept well back, but sometimes we ride them into the killing place and a frightened horse is a useless horse. Yet horses can be trained to survive the din, to ignore the shrieks, the clangour of blades and the piercing screams, and so we try to accustom them to the noise so that they will not fear the awful sound of battle.
And while we shouted and made our noise a horseman came from the west. Finan saw him first and touched my elbow. I turned and saw a weary horse, sweat-whitened, and a wide-eyed rider almost falling from the saddle with tiredness. He half collapsed when he dismounted, and only Finan’s arm kept him upright. ‘Lord,’ he said, ‘lord.’ Then told me his message.
The dragon was coming south.
‘The Scots, lord,’ the messenger said, and he was so tired he could hardly speak and I checked his words with a raised hand and gave him a flask of ale.
‘Drink,’ I said, ‘then talk.’
‘The Scots, lord,’ he said when he had drained the flask, ‘they invaded.’
‘Cumbria?’ I guessed.
‘Ealdorman Alfgar sent me, lord. He’s going south.’
‘Alfgar?’
‘He’s gone to join forces with Godric, lord.’
Men were crowding around to hear the news. I made them step back, and told Aldwyn to take the messenger’s horse to the fortress. ‘He needs water,’ I told the boy, ‘then walk him before you stable him.’ I sat the messenger on a great bleached log of driftwood and made him tell his story slowly.
The Scots, he said, had crossed the River Hedene upstream of Cair Ligualid. ‘Hundreds, lord! Thousands! We were lucky.’
‘Lucky?’
‘We had warning. Some men were hawking by the river at dawn, they rode to tell us.’
‘You saw them?’
‘The Scots, lord? Yes! And blackshields. The ealdorman sent me to tell you.’
‘When was this?’
‘A week ago, lord. I rode fast! But I had to avoid the Scots!’
I did not ask whether Alfgar had sent a messenger to Æthelstan because it was obvious that he would have done that before telling me, but nor did I necessarily believe the messenger. His name was Cenwalh and he was a West Saxon by his speech, but the thought occurred to me that he could still be a man
