‘We’ll meet tomorrow evening,’ I said, ‘on a field of dead enemies.’
‘I pray so.’
I had said my farewell to Benedetta and made sure she had a good horse and a rich purse of coins. ‘If we lose,’ I had told her, ‘you get out of the city, cross the bridge over the Dee, and go south!’
‘You will not lose,’ she said fiercely, ‘I cannot lose you!’ She had wanted to come to the battlefield, but I had forbidden it and she had reluctantly accepted my insistence, though at a price. She had unlooped the heavy gold cross from about her neck and pushed it into my hands. ‘Wear it for me,’ she said, ‘it will keep you safe.’
I hesitated. I did not want to offend my gods, and I knew that the cross was valuable, a gift to Benedetta from Queen Eadgifu. ‘Wear it!’ she said sharply. ‘It will keep you safe, I know it!’ I hung the cross about my neck, along with the silver hammer. ‘And don’t take it off!’ she warned me.
‘I won’t. And I will see you after we’ve won.’
‘Make sure you do!’ I left Eadric with her, telling him he was too old to fight and to keep her safe and to take her far southwards if the battle was lost. She and I had kissed, then I left her with tears in her eyes.
I had not told her of Æthelstan’s offer of a bride. That offer had appalled me as much as I suspected it would enrage Benedetta, and that morning I had glimpsed Eldrida as she went to church in the company of six nuns. She looked like a nun herself, dressed in drab grey robes and with a heavy silver cross at her breast. She was a small, plump girl with a face that reminded me of an indignant piglet, but the piglet was worth a fortune.
We were camped south of the bridge, ready to move to the battlefield at dawn. We had bread, cold beef, cheese, and ale. Showers blew through after nightfall and we saw the northern land beyond the small crest of the battlefield glow with the campfires of our enemies. They had marched south from Dingesmere where their ships were moored in the sea-pool, and there was not a man in our force who did not gaze at that great glow and wonder how many men were grouped around those fires. Æthelstan had brought over three thousand men to his encampment, not counting the fyrd who could contribute little against Anlaf’s trained warriors. Æthelstan also had Steapa’s five hundred men who were camped some two miles behind us, but I reckoned Anlaf and Constantine must have had closer to five thousand. Some insisted they had six or even seven thousand, but no one truly knew.
I ate with my son, Finan, Egil and Thorolf. We said little and ate less. Sihtric joined us, but only to drink ale. ‘When does the truce end?’ he asked.
‘Midnight.’
‘But they won’t fight till daylight,’ Egil said.
‘Late morning,’ I said. It would take time to array the armies, and then for the fools to flaunt themselves between the lines to offer single combat.
Rain pattered on the sailcloth we had rigged between poles as a crude shelter. ‘The ground will be wet,’ Finan said gloomily, ‘slippery.’
No one answered. ‘We should sleep,’ I said, but knew sleep would be difficult. It would be difficult for the enemy too, just as the ground would be as slippery for them as it was for us. The rain hardened and I prayed that it would last through the next day because the Irish Norse liked to use archers and rain would slacken the cords of their bows.
I walked around my men’s campfires. I said the usual things, reminded them that they had trained for this, that the hours and days and months and years spent practising would keep them alive next day, but I knew many must die despite their skill. The shield wall is unforgiving. A priest was praying with some of my Christians, and I did not disturb him, just told the rest to eat, to sleep if they could, and to be confident. ‘We’re the wolves of Bebbanburg,’ I told them, ‘and we have never been defeated.’
A burst of harder rain made me move towards the brighter fires at the encampment’s centre. I expected no fighting till late morning, but I was wearing mail, mostly for the warmth that the leather liner gave me. There was candlelight showing in the king’s gaudy tent and I wandered towards it. Two guards at the entrance recognised me and, because I wore no sword or seax, let me pass. ‘He’s not here, lord,’ one of them said.
I went inside anyway, just to escape the rain. The tent was empty except for a priest in his embroidered robes who was kneeling on a cushion in front of a makeshift altar that held a silver crucifix. He turned when he heard me and I saw it was my son, the bishop. I stopped, tempted to leave the tent, but my son stood, looking as awkward as I felt. ‘Father,’ he said uncertainly, ‘the king has gone to talk to his men.’
‘I was doing the same.’ I decided I would stay. The rain would surely drive Æthelstan back to his tent. I had no real reason to talk to the king, other than to share our fears and hopes of the next day. I crossed to a table and saw a clay jug of wine that did not smell like vinegar so I poured some into a beaker. ‘I don’t suppose he’ll mind me stealing his wine.’ I saw my son had noticed the heavy gold cross hanging at my neck. I shrugged. ‘Benedetta insists I wear it. She says it
