‘I don’t want to feed the bastards at Bebbanburg,’ I said. ‘And how far can they go? They’ve no food, nothing to drink, and no sail. Half of them are wounded and they’re in a leaking boat. If they’ve any sense they’ll row for shore.’
‘Against the wind,’ Egil was amused at the thought.
‘And when they get ashore,’ I said, ‘they’ll have no weapons. So welcome to Northumbria.’
We had rescued eleven of the fishermen who had crewed the Gydene and the Swealwe, all of them forced to row for their captors. The prisoners we had taken were all either West Saxons or East Anglians and subjects of King Edward, if he still lived. I had kept a dozen to take back to Bebbanburg, including the priest who had so feverishly called on his men to slaughter us. He was brought to me on Spearhafoc, which was still bows down, but Gerbruht’s efforts were stemming the worst of the leak, and moving much of the ballast aft had steadied the hull.
The priest was young and stocky, with a round face, black hair, and a sour expression. There was something familiar about him. ‘Have we met?’ I asked.
‘Thank God, no.’
He was standing just below the steering platform, guarded by a grinning Beornoth. We had raised the sail and were going northwards, going home, driven by the steady west wind. Most of my men were on the large ship we had captured, only a few were still on Spearhafoc, and those few were still bailing water. The young man who had sworn to kill me was still tied to the mast, from where he glowered at me. ‘That young fool,’ I said, talking to the priest and nodding towards the young man, ‘is from Wessex, but you sound Mercian.’
‘Christ’s kingdom has no boundaries,’ he retorted.
‘Unlike my mercy,’ I said, to which he answered nothing. ‘I’m from Northumbria,’ I went on, ignoring his defiance, ‘and in Northumbria I am an ealdorman. You call me lord.’ He still said nothing, just looked up at me with a scowl. Spearhafoc was still sluggish, reluctant to lift her bows, but she was sailing and she was heading home. Banamaðr and the captured ship were keeping us company, ready to take us off if Spearhafoc began to sink, though minute by minute I sensed that she would survive to be dragged ashore and repaired. ‘You call me lord,’ I repeated. ‘Where are you from?’
‘Christ’s kingdom.’
Beornoth drew back a meaty hand to strike the priest, but I shook my head. ‘You see that we’re in danger of sinking?’ I asked the priest, who stayed stubbornly silent. I doubted he could sense that Spearhafoc, far from foundering, was recovering her grace. ‘And if we do sink,’ I went on, ‘I’ll tie you to the mast alongside that idiot child. Unless, of course, you tell me what I want to know. Where are you from?’
‘I was born in Mercia,’ he spoke reluctantly, ‘but God saw fit to send me to Wessex.’
‘If he doesn’t call me lord again,’ I told Beornoth, ‘you can smack him as hard as you like.’ I smiled at the priest. ‘Where in Wessex?’
‘Wintanceaster,’ he said, paused, then sensed Beornoth moving and hastily added, ‘lord.’
‘And what,’ I asked, ‘is a priest from Wintanceaster doing in a ship off the Northumbrian coast?’
‘We were sent to kill you!’ he snarled, then yelped as Beornoth smacked the back of his head.
‘Be strong in the Lord, father!’ the young man shouted from the mast.
‘What is that idiot’s name?’ I asked, amused.
The priest hesitated a heartbeat, giving the young man a sideways glance. ‘Wistan, lord,’ he said.
‘And your name?’ I asked.
‘Father Ceolnoth,’ there was again a slight pause before he added ‘lord.’
And I knew then why he was familiar and why he hated me. And that made me laugh. We limped on home.
Two
We took Spearhafoc home. It was not easy. Gerbruht had slowed the leak, yet still the sleek hull wallowed in the afternoon seas. I had a dozen men bailing her and feared that worsening weather might doom her, but the gusting wind was kind, settling into a steady westerly, and the fretting sea calmed and Spearhafoc’s wolf-sail carried us slowly north. It was dusk when we reached the Farnea Islands and limped between them and a western sky that was a red-streaked furnace of savage fire against which Bebbanburg’s ramparts were outlined black. It was a weary crew that rowed the stricken ship through the narrow channel into Bebbanburg’s harbour. We beached Spearhafoc, and in the morning I would assemble teams of oxen to drag her above the tideline where her bows could be mended. Banamaðr and the captured ship followed us through the channel.
I had talked with Father Ceolnoth as we laboured home, but he had proved sullen and unhelpful. Wistan, the young man who had believed his god wanted my death, had been miserable and equally unhelpful. I had asked them both who had sent them north to kill me, and neither would answer. I had released Wistan from the mast and showed him a heap of captured swords. ‘You can take one and try to kill me again,’ I told him. He blushed when my men laughed and urged him to accept the offer, but he made no attempt to do his god’s work. Instead he just sat in the scuppers until Gerbruht told him to start bailing. ‘You want to live, boy? Start slinging water!’
‘Your father,’ I spoke to Father Ceolnoth, ‘is Ceolberht?’
He seemed surprised that I knew, though in truth it had been a guess. ‘Yes,’ he said curtly.
‘I knew him as a boy.’
‘He told me,’ the priest said, a pause, then, ‘lord.’
‘He didn’t like me then,’ I said, ‘and I daresay he dislikes me still.’
‘Our God teaches us to forgive,’ he said, though in the bitter tone some Christian priests use when they
