‘Then leave this land,’ I said, ‘because King Æthelstan is bringing his army, an undefeated army, and your humiliation will be greater.’
‘Bring the army,’ Ingilmundr said in the Saxon tongue, ‘because our spears are hungry.’
‘As for you,’ I said, ‘you treacherous piece of shit, I’ll feed your corpse to Saxon pigs.’
‘Enough,’ Steapa growled. ‘You want to fight my king here?’
‘If he dares come,’ Ingilmundr translated Anlaf’s answer.
‘Then keep the truce for one more week,’ Steapa said.
There was silence after Ingilmundr translated that. Anlaf looked surprised, then suspicious. ‘You accept this battlefield?’ he finally asked.
‘Tell him we accept,’ Steapa said, ‘we will beat you here. It’s as good a place as any, and the army we bring cannot be beaten!’
‘And you want another week?’ Anlaf asked. ‘So you can assemble more men to be slaughtered?’
‘We need a week to bring our army here,’ Steapa said.
Anlaf did not look at Constantine, which surprised me, he just nodded. ‘One week from today,’ he agreed.
‘And until then,’ Steapa demanded, ‘you stay north of these hazel rods, and we stay south of those.’ He pointed at the line of rods north of the bridge.
‘Agreed,’ Constantine said hurriedly, perhaps to show that he was Anlaf’s equal.
‘Then we shall meet again,’ Steapa said, turned his horse and, without another word, spurred towards the bridge.
Ingilmundr watched Steapa ride down the shallow slope. ‘Æthelstan gave him the authority to make the decision?’ he asked.
‘He did,’ I said.
‘And they call him Steapa Snotor!’ Ingilmundr sneered, then translated the old insult to Anlaf.
Anlaf laughed. ‘Steapa the stupid! We shall meet one week from today, Lord Uhtred.’
I said nothing, just turned Snawgebland and spurred to follow Steapa. I caught up with him as we approached the bridge. ‘So you agree with me?’ I said.
‘If we don’t fight him here,’ Steapa said, ‘we lose Ceaster and he marches into northern Mercia. We’ll fight him eventually, but he’ll choose a higher hill than this one, a steeper slope, and the fight will be twice as hard. This isn’t the best place to fight, but you’re right. There’s a good chance we can win here.’ The hooves of our horses clattered loud on the bridge. ‘He’s got the advantage,’ Steapa went on, ‘and it won’t be easy.’
‘It never is.’
‘But if God is on our side? We can win.’ He made the sign of the cross.
Next day he rode south to meet Æthelstan who was bringing his army north. The decision was made. We would fight at Wirhealum.
Steapa had insisted on a week’s truce to give Æthelstan’s army time to arrive in Ceaster, though that only took three days. On the evening of the third day there was a service in the church Æthelflaed had built, and Æthelstan insisted all his commanders attended and brought men with them. I took fifty of my Christians. Monks chanted, men bowed, knelt and stood, and finally my son, the bishop, stood before the altar and preached.
I had not wanted to attend, but Æthelstan had ordered me to be present, and so I stood at the back, among the shadows cast by the tall candles, and braced myself for whatever my son would say. He was known for his hatred of pagans and I expected a rant, ostensibly aimed at Anlaf, but doubtless meant for me too.
But he surprised me. He spoke of the land we protected; a land, he said, of farms and coppiced woodlands, of lakes and high pastures. He spoke of families, of wives and children. He spoke well, not loudly, but his voice reached us clearly enough. ‘God,’ he said, ‘is on our side! It is our land that has been invaded, how can God not support us?’ I listened to that and supposed that Constantine’s bishops had claimed the same when Æthelstan invaded his land. ‘We will claim all the land that is rightfully ours,’ my son went on, ‘because Northumbria is a part of Englaland, and we fight for Englaland. And yes, I know that Northumbria is rife with pagans!’ I groaned inwardly. ‘But Englaland has its pagans too. Bishop Oda was born a pagan! I was raised as a Northumbrian pagan! Yet we are both Ænglisc!’ His voice was rising. ‘We are both Christians! Both bishops! How many in this church had pagan parents?’ That question took everyone by surprise, but gradually the hands went up, including my son’s hand. I was astonished by how many raised an arm, but of course the majority of Æthelstan’s troops were from Mercia, and the northern part of that country had been ruled and settled by the Danes for a long time. My son lowered his hand. ‘But now we are not Danes or Saxons,’ he went on strongly, ‘neither pagans nor Christians, but Ænglisc! And God will be with us!’
It was a good sermon. We were all nervous. Every man in Æthelstan’s army knew we were fighting on land the enemy had chosen, and a rumour had hurried through the army that Æthelstan himself had disapproved of Steapa’s acceptance. ‘It’s nonsense,’ Æthelstan told me irritably. ‘It’s not perfect ground, but probably as good as we can expect.’
It was the day after my son’s sermon and there were twelve of us exploring the wooded ridge that would lie on the left of Æthelstan’s battle line. I had sent Eadric and Oswi to scout the ridge as far as the ruined palisade of Brynstæþ, and they had assured us there was no enemy among the trees beyond the settlement. Meanwhile fifty other horsemen were riding the chosen battlefield, going as far north as the truce allowed, and one of them wore Æthelstan’s distinctive cloak and his helmet with its gold ring like a coronet. The enemy would be watching them, but so far Anlaf’s men had not been seen coming further south than they had agreed, and I was confident that Æthelstan’s exploration of the ridge was hidden from enemy scouts.
Æthelstan wore a drab mail coat and a battered helmet, looking like
