Æthelstan came to the charred ruin of his tent. ‘Were there no sentries?’ he was asking angrily of one of his companions, then saw me. ‘Lord Uhtred. I am sorry.’
My eldest son was dead. Cut by swords, his blood reddening his lavish robes. His heavy pectoral cross had been stolen. His body had been dragged from the burning tent, but too late. Now I knelt by him and touched his face that was unmarked and oddly peaceful. ‘I’m sorry,’ Æthelstan said again.
For a moment I could not speak. ‘We had made our peace, lord King.’
‘Then tomorrow we will make war,’ Æthelstan said harshly, ‘terrible war, and we will avenge his death.’
Tomorrow the lord would work wonders for us? Except my eldest son was dead and the flames of the campfires blurred as I went back to my men.
Dawn. Birds singing in the high woods as though this was just another day. The rain had eased in the night, but a shower blew through as I left my shelter. My joints ached, reminding me that I was old. Immar Hergildson, the young Dane I had saved from a hanging, vomited beside the charred remains of a campfire. ‘Drunk last night?’ I asked him, kicking away a dog that came to eat the vomit.
He just shook his head. He was pale, frightened. ‘You’ve stood in a shield wall,’ I told him, ‘you know what to do.’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘And they’re frightened too,’ I said, nodding north to where the enemy was camped beyond the low crest.
‘Yes, lord,’ he said uncertainly.
‘Just watch for the low spear thrust,’ I told him, ‘and don’t lower your shield.’ He had been prone to doing so in practice. A man in the enemy’s second rank would thrust a spear at an ankle or calf and Immar’s natural reaction was to lower the shield and so open himself to a sword thrust into the throat or chest. ‘You’ll be fine,’ I told him.
Aldwyn, my servant, brought me a cup of ale. ‘There’s bread, lord, and bacon.’
‘You eat,’ I told him. I had no appetite.
My son, my only son now, came to me. He was pale too. ‘It was Ingilmundr,’ he told me.
I knew he meant that it had been Ingilmundr who had infiltrated our camp and killed my eldest son. ‘You know that?’
‘He was recognised, lord.’
That made sense. Ingilmundr, the tall handsome Norseman who had sworn his oath to Æthelstan, who had pretended to be a Christian, who had been given land on Wirhealum, and who had made his secret alliance with Anlaf, had led a group of men through the darkness. He knew Æthelstan’s army, he spoke our language, and in the rainswept night he had come to kill the king, hoping to leave us leaderless and afraid. Instead he had killed my son and, in the night’s blazing chaos, had escaped into the dark. ‘It’s a bad omen,’ I said.
‘A good omen, father.’
‘Why good?’
‘If he had struck a few minutes earlier you would have died.’
I had lain awake, thinking just that. ‘Your brother and I made our peace,’ I told him, ‘before he died.’ I remembered the embrace, and my awareness that he had sobbed silently on my shoulder. ‘I was a bad father,’ I said softly.
‘No!’
‘Too late now,’ I said harshly. ‘And today we kill Ingilmundr. And we make it hurt.’
I was wearing leggings and a tunic, but Aldwyn brought me my best coat of Frisian mail, the links heavy, backed with leather, and edged at the neck and skirt hems with gold and silver rings. I pulled on my rich bracelets, the glittering trophies of victories past that would betray to the enemy that I was a warlord. I pulled on the heavy boots that were lined with iron strips and heeled with golden spurs. I buckled the smaller sword belt, sewn with silver squares, that held Wasp-Sting at my right side, then the heavier belt, blazoned with gold wolf heads that held Serpent-Breath at my left hip. Around my neck I wrapped a scarf of rare white silk, a gift from Benedetta, and over it I hung a thick gold chain, with the silver hammer hanging over my heart and next to it the gold cross that Benedetta swore would protect me. I fastened a night-black cloak about my shoulders, then pulled on my finest war-helm that was crested with a silver wolf. I stamped my feet then walked a few paces to settle the heavy armour. Aldwyn, an orphan from Lundene, stared at me wide-eyed. I was a warlord, the warlord of Bebbanburg, a warlord of Britain, and Aldwyn saw glory and power, ignorant of the fear that made my stomach sour, that mocked me, that made my voice harsh. ‘Is Snawgebland saddled?’
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Bring him. And Aldwyn?’
‘Lord?’
‘You stay behind the wall, well behind. There’ll be arrows flying, so stay out of range. If I need you, I’ll call you. Now fetch the horse.’
We would be the first of Æthelstan’s men to cross the bridge onto the battlefield. He had asked me to hold the right flank, hard against the deeper stream. We expected the hardest fight to be on the left flank where Anlaf would unleash his wild Norse warriors, but the right flank would be hit hard too, because whoever faced us would be eager to break our shield wall and so pour men behind Æthelstan’s battle line.
I placed Egil and his men next to the stream, then arrayed the men of Bebbanburg in four ranks, and to their left Sihtric formed his warriors. Beyond them, in the long centre of his line, Æthelstan placed the men of Mercia, while his left wing, which we suspected would face Anlaf’s own Norsemen, was trusted to five hundred of his West Saxon warriors.
A shower gusted from the west, lasted two or three minutes, and blew over.
