‘No, lord, but the Cumbrian Norse will fight for Constantine.’
‘You think so?’
‘They hate us, lord. They hate the cross …’ his voice faltered as he saw my hammer.
‘Back to the fortress,’ I commanded my men.
I remember that day well, an autumn day of sunshine and small wind, of gentle seas and mild warmth. The harvest was almost finished and I had planned a feast for the villagers, but now I had to plan for the chance that Cenwalh’s tale was true. I asked Egil to hurry home and then send scouts north of the Tuede to search for any sign of a Scottish army gathering. Then I sent messages to those of my warriors who farmed my land, ordering them to Bebbanburg with their men, and I sent a man to Dunholm, to tell Sihtric that I might need his troops.
Then I waited. I was not idle. We sharpened spears, repaired mail, and bound willow-board shields with iron. ‘You will go then?’ Benedetta asked me.
‘I swore an oath to protect Æthelstan.’
‘And he needs an old man to protect him?’
‘He needs the old man’s warriors,’ I said patiently.
‘But he was your enemy!’
‘Ealdred was my enemy. He misled Æthelstan.’
‘Ouff!’ she exclaimed. I was tempted to smile at that, but sensibly kept a straight face. ‘Æthelstan has an army to protect him!’ she went on. ‘He has Wessex, he has East Anglia, he has Mercia! He has to have you too?’
‘If he calls for me,’ I said, ‘I will go.’
‘Perhaps he will not call.’
Or perhaps, I thought, Alfgar had panicked. Perhaps Constantine was raiding northern Cumbria and, once he had stolen the harvest and captured enough cattle, he would retreat into Scotland. Or perhaps Cenwalh’s story was untrue? I did not know, though an instinct told me that the dragon and the falling star had come at last. It was war.
‘If you go,’ Benedetta said, ‘I go too.’
‘No,’ I said firmly.
‘I am not your slave! Not a slave any more! I am not your wife. I am a free woman, you said so yourself! I go where I want!’
It was like trying to argue with a tempest and I said nothing more. And I waited.
More news came, but it was unreliable, mere rumour. The Scots were south of the Ribbel and still advancing, they had gone back north, they were marching east towards Eoferwic, they had been joined by an army of Norsemen, that there had been a battle near Mameceaster and the Scots had won, next day it was the Saxons who had triumphed. Alfgar was dead, Alfgar was pursuing a beaten Scottish army north. Nothing was certain, but the news, mostly brought by traders, none of whom had seen an army or a battle, persuaded me to send war-bands to the west in search of some reliable report. I ordered them not to cross into Cumbria, but to seek out fugitives and it was one of those bands, led by my son, that brought troubling news. ‘Olaf Einerson led sixteen men west,’ my son told me. ‘They took weapons, shields, and mail.’ Olaf Einerson was a surly, troublesome tenant who had taken over his father’s land and who was ever reluctant to pay me rent. ‘His wife told me,’ my son went on. ‘She says he’s gone to join the Scots.’
We heard other reports of Danes and Norsemen riding west over the hills with their men, and Berg, who took thirty men in search of news, came back to say that there were rumours of Scottish troops visiting Danish and Norse settlements offering silver and promises of more land. The only certainty I had was that Bebbanburg was not immediately threatened. Egil had led men deep into the north country, riding almost to the Foirthe, and found nothing. He brought that news to Bebbanburg and with him came his brother, Thorolf, and seventy-six mounted men. ‘And we’ll march together,’ he said happily.
‘I don’t know that I’m marching yet,’ I told him.
He looked around Bebbanburg’s courtyard, crammed with the troops I had summoned from my estates. ‘Of course you are,’ he said.
‘And if I march,’ I warned him, ‘I fight for Æthelstan Not for the Norse.’
‘Of course you do.’
‘And the Norse will side with Constantine,’ I said, and then, after a pause, ‘and don’t say of course they will.’
‘But of course they will,’ he said, smiling, ‘and I will fight for you. You saved my brother’s life, you gave me land, and you gave me friendship. Who else would I fight for?’
‘Against the Norse?’
‘Against your enemies, lord.’ He paused. ‘When do we march?’
I knew I had been delaying the decision, persuading myself that I waited for confirmation from a messenger I trusted. Was I reluctant? I had prayed never to stand in another shield wall, told myself that Æthelstan did not need my men, had listened to Benedetta’s pleas, and had remembered the dragon coming from the gold-hoard with its burning nostrils. Of course I was reluctant. Only the young and fools go to war gladly. Yet I was prepared for war. My men were gathered and the spears were sharp.
‘The Scots have ever been your enemies,’ Egil went on quietly. I said nothing. ‘And if you don’t march,’ he went on, ‘Æthelstan will mistrust you more than ever.’
‘He hasn’t summoned me.’
Egil glanced at Finan who had joined us on the seaward rampart. A gust of wind lifted Finan’s long grey hair, reminding me that we were old and that battle is
