‘God knows if any messenger can get through Northumbria these days,’ Finan said.
‘My tenants are loyal,’ I said stubbornly.
‘Mostly,’ Finan said, ‘yes.’ But his dubious tone told me that not all my tenants were loyal to the Saxon cause. Olaf Einerson had already gone to join the invaders and others would go too, and any messenger coming from the south would have to avoid the settlements of the Northmen.
‘And what do you think is happening?’ Egil asked me.
I hesitated, tempted to say I did not know and that I waited for real news, but these two men were my closest friends, companions of battle, and I told them the truth. ‘I think the Scots are taking their revenge.’
‘Then what are you waiting for?’ Egil asked very quietly.
I answered just as quietly. ‘Courage.’ Neither man spoke. I stared at the water shattering white on the Farnea Islands. This was home, the place I loved, and I did not want to march across the whole width of Britain to stand in another shield wall. ‘We march tomorrow,’ I said reluctantly, ‘at dawn.’
Because the dragon was flying south.
I rode unwillingly. It did not feel like my fight. To the south was Æthelstan, a king who had turned against me as he was dazzled by his own dreams of glory, while to the north was Constantine, who had ever wanted to take my land. I hated neither man, trusted neither, and wanted no part of their war. Except it was my war too. Whatever happened would decide the fate of Northumbria and I am a Northumbrian. My country is the hard high hills, the pounding sea coast, and the tough folk who make their living from the thin soil and the cold ocean. Beowulf rode to fight the dragon because he was the guardian of his people, and my people did not want to be ruled by their old enemy, the Scots. They were not enthusiastic about the southern Saxons either, regarding them as a soft, privileged people, but when swords are drawn and spear-blades glitter they will side with the Saxons. The Norse and the Danes of Northumbria might rally to Constantine, but only because they wanted to be left alone to worship the true gods. I would have liked that too, but history, like fate, is inexorable. Northumbria could not survive on its own and it must choose which king would rule, and I, as Northumbria’s greatest lord, would choose the man I had once sworn to protect. We would ride to Æthelstan.
And so we travelled the familiar road to Eoferwic. Once there we would follow the Roman road through Scipton, across the hills and so down to Mameceaster. I was praying that Constantine’s army would not have reached that far, because if he broke through the row of burhs that protected Mercia’s northern frontier then he would be free to savage and plunder the rich Mercian fields. I led over three hundred warriors, including thirty-three from Dunholm and Egil’s fearsome Norsemen. We were all mounted, and followed by over fifty servants leading packhorses that carried food, fodder, shields and spears. I had left just forty men to hold Bebbanburg under the command of Redbad, a reliable Frisian warrior, who would be helped by Egil’s folk who I had encouraged to shelter behind the fortress’s ramparts. There had been no sign of a Scottish invasion on the east coast, but Egil’s men would sleep better knowing that their women and children were behind Bebbanburg’s mighty walls. ‘And if the Scots do come,’ Egil told Redbad cheerfully, ‘you put the women in helmets on the ramparts. They’ll look like warriors! Enough to scare off the Scots.’
We still did not know what happened on Britain’s western coast. Eoferwic was nervous, its garrison alert, but no men had marched eastwards. The city’s leader, now that Guthfrith and Ealdred were dead, was the new archbishop, Wulfstan. He was a thin, irascible man who greeted me suspiciously. ‘Why are you going?’ he demanded.
‘Why isn’t the garrison sending men?’ I retorted.
‘Their task is to protect the city, not wander across Britain because of rumour.’
‘And if Æthelstan is defeated?’
‘I have good relations with the Northmen! The church will survive. Christ cannot be defeated, Lord Uhtred.’
I looked about the room where we met, a lavish chamber that had been built by the Romans and was warmed by a great fire and hung with woollen tapestries depicting Christ and his disciples. Beneath them, on long wooden tables, was a treasure trove of gold vessels, silver plates, and jewel-encrusted reliquaries. The room had never gleamed with so much wealth when Hrothweard had been archbishop, so was Wulfstan taking money? The Scots would bribe him, I was sure, and so would Anlaf. ‘You have news?’ I asked him.
‘The Scots are said to be moving south,’ he said dismissively, ‘but Alfgar and Godric will fight them before they reach Mameceaster.’
‘Alfgar and Godric,’ I said, ‘can’t have more than seven hundred men. If that. The Scots will have three times their number. And maybe the help of the Irish Norse?’
‘They won’t come!’ he said too quickly, then looked at me indignantly. ‘Anlaf is a minor chieftain, no more. He’ll stay in his Irish bog.’
‘Rumour says—’ I began.
‘A man of your experience should know better than to listen to rumour,’ Wulfstan interrupted petulantly. ‘You want my advice, lord? Leave this Scottish adventure to King Æthelstan.’
‘You have news of him?’
‘I assume he is gathering forces! He has no need of yours.’
‘He might not agree,’ I said calmly.
‘Then the boy is a fool!’ His anger broke through. ‘A pathetic fool! Have you seen his hair? Golden ringlets! No wonder men call him “pretty boy”!’
‘Have you seen the pretty boy fight?’ I asked. He gave me no answer. ‘I have,’ I went on, ‘and he’s formidable.’
‘Then he has no need of your forces nor of mine. I am not so irresponsible as to leave this
