‘He thought of others before himself,’ I said, ‘and he was clever. So are you.’
He stopped and turned on me. ‘You killed Ealdred.’ It was a statement, not a question.
I hesitated for a heartbeat, then decided this was a time for honesty. ‘I did.’
He grimaced. ‘Why?’
‘To protect you.’ I did not add that I was protecting him from bad advice. He knew that.
He frowned at me, thinking. ‘So you caused this war. I assume you killed Guthfrith too?’
‘I did,’ I said, ‘and this war was coming whether Ealdred or Guthfrith lived or died.’
He nodded. ‘I suppose it was,’ he said quietly, then looked at me accusingly. ‘You have frost now.’
‘Frost?’ I asked.
‘The stallion. I gave him to Lord Ealdred.’
‘A generous gift,’ I said. ‘I renamed him Snawgebland. Do you want him back?’
He shook his head. He seemed remarkably unmoved by my confession, but I suppose he had always suspected that I was Ealdred’s killer and, besides, he had far greater problems to face. ‘I always feared that if Guthfrith died you would take Northumbria’s throne.’
‘Me!’ I laughed. ‘Why would I want that trouble?’
He paced the rugs, sometimes glancing at the scrap of linen. He finally stopped to stare down at the linen. ‘My fear,’ he said, ‘is that God will punish me.’
‘For what?’
‘My sins,’ he said quietly.
‘God let you become king,’ I said forcefully, ‘he let you make peace with Hywel, he let you invade Scotland, and he’s let you finish what your grandfather began.’
‘Almost finish. And I could lose it all in one day. Maybe that will be God’s punishment?’
‘Why would your god favour Anlaf over you?’
‘To punish me for pride.’
‘Anlaf is proud too,’ I said.
‘He is the devil’s creature.’
‘Then your god should fight him, destroy him.’
He started pacing again. ‘Constantine is a good Christian.’
‘Then why is he allied to a pagan?’
He stopped and gave me a wry smile. ‘It seems I am too.’
‘Pagans,’ I said, ‘me and Egil Skallagrimmrson.’
‘He’ll fight for us?’
‘He will.’
‘Small mercies,’ Æthelstan said softly.
‘How many men do you have?’ I asked.
‘Just over a thousand West Saxons,’ he said, ‘and sixteen hundred Mercians. Your men too, of course, and more are arriving every day.’
‘The fyrd?’ I asked. The fyrd was the army raised from the country, an army of ploughmen, foresters, and peasants.
‘A thousand,’ he said, ‘but God knows what use they’ll be against Anlaf’s men.’
‘Even with the fyrd,’ I said, ‘you’re probably going to have fewer men than Anlaf, but you can still win.’
‘How?’ he demanded sharply. ‘Simply by fighting more savagely than they do?’
‘By fighting more cleverly than they do,’ I said, and picked up the lump of charcoal and sketched some new lines on the linen, explaining as I went. ‘That,’ I finished, ‘is how you can win.’
He gazed at the crude drawing. ‘So why didn’t you show that to Æthelwyn and the others?’
‘Because if a dozen men know what you plan before the battle then they will tell another dozen men, and they will then tell others. How long before Anlaf also knows?’
He nodded acceptance of that, still staring at the linen. ‘And if I lose?’ he asked quietly.
‘There will be no Englaland.’
He still looked down at the changes I had made on the map. ‘Archbishop Wulfhelm tells me that God wanted me to be king,’ he said quietly. ‘I forget that sometimes.’
‘Trust your god,’ I said, ‘and trust your troops. They’re fighting for their homes, for their wives, for their children.’
‘But fighting in a place Anlaf chooses?’
‘And if you beat him in a place of his choosing then you humiliate him, you will prove to be what you say you are, Monarchus Totius Brittaniae.’
He gave a brief smile. ‘You appeal to my pride, lord?’
‘Pride is good in a warrior,’ I said.
He looked up at me and for a heartbeat I saw the child I had raised, a child constantly in fear of his life, but a child with courage. ‘You really think we can win?’ he asked.
I dared not let my doubts show. I tapped the linen map. ‘Do what I advise you, lord King, and by month’s end you will be the monarch of all Britain and the streams of Wirhealum will run thick with the blood of your enemies.’
He paused, then nodded. ‘Ride for Ceaster at dawn, lord. I will give you my decision before you leave.’
I went into the night, but before I dropped the tent’s flap behind me I saw he had fallen to his knees and was praying.
It started to rain.
Steapa rode with us next day. He looked old. He was still a huge man with a frightening face and the air of a warrior who would resort to violence at the smallest slight. I had been scared of him when we first met, but had learned that beneath his grim exterior was a kind soul. His hair and beard were white now, and his skull-face was deeply creased, but he still mounted his horse easily, and still carried a great sword that had begun its life slaughtering Alfred’s enemies. ‘It should have killed you too,’ he growled when I greeted him.
‘You were never good enough,’ I said. ‘You were too slow. You moved like a haystack.’
‘I was just giving you a chance.’
‘Funny, I was giving you one too.’ We had fought all those years ago on Alfred’s command. The fight was supposed to establish my guilt or innocence, but it had been interrupted by Guthrum’s invading forces. The fight had never finished, though I had never forgotten my fear of facing Steapa, even after we became friends. ‘Maybe we’d better finish the fight,’ I suggested. ‘You’d be easy to beat now. Slow and old.’
‘Old! Me? Have you seen yourself? You look like something the dog chewed and spat out.’
He was riding with us because Æthelstan had been beset with doubts through the night and had sent Steapa to look at Anlaf’s chosen battlefield. ‘If Steapa agrees with you,’ the king had told
