Then he talked and so confirmed much of what I had guessed. Eadgifu’s declaration that she was travelling to Contwaraburg to pray at the shrine of Saint Bertha had not deceived Æthelhelm for a moment. Even as the queen and her small entourage travelled south Æthelhelm’s men were galloping toward Wiltunscir where they roused a troop of his household warriors. Those men, in turn, went to Lundene where Æthelhelm kept ships which had brought them to this creek on the muddy shore of Cent where, just as Æthelhelm had surmised, Eadgifu had taken shelter. ‘What are your orders?’ I asked Wighelm.
He shrugged. ‘Stay here, keep her here, wait for more orders.’
‘Orders that will come when the king dies?’
‘I suppose so.’
‘You weren’t told to go to Contwaraburg? To order the queen’s brother to stay quiet?’
‘Other men went there.’
‘What other men? Who? And to do what?’
‘Dreogan. He took fifty men and I don’t know why he went there.’
‘And Dreogan is?’
‘He commands fifty of Lord Æthelhelm’s household troops.’
‘What about Waormund?’ I asked.
The mention of that name made Wighelm shudder. He made the sign of the cross. ‘Waormund went to East Anglia,’ he said, ‘but why? I don’t know.’
‘You don’t like Waormund?’ I asked.
‘No one likes Waormund,’ he replied bitterly, ‘except perhaps Lord Æthelhelm. Waormund is Lord Æthelhelm’s beast.’
‘I’ve met the beast,’ I said bleakly, remembering the huge, vacant-faced warrior who was taller and stronger than any man I had ever met except for Steapa, who was another fearsome West Saxon warrior. Steapa had been a slave, but had become one of King Alfred’s most trusted warriors. He had been my enemy too, but had become a friend. ‘Does Lord Steapa still live?’ I asked.
Wighelm looked momentarily confused at the unexpected question, but nodded. ‘He’s old. But he lives.’
‘Good,’ I said, ‘and who is in Fæfresham?’
Again Wighelm looked puzzled by the sudden change of questioning. ‘Eadgifu is there …’ he recovered.
‘I know that! Who leads the men there?’
‘Eanwulf.’
‘And how many men does he have?’
‘About fifty.’
I turned to Immar Hergildson, a young man whose life I had saved and who had served me devotedly ever since. ‘Tie his hands,’ I ordered him.
‘Yes, lord.’
‘Lord?’ Wighelm repeated the word nervously. ‘You’re a—’
‘I’m a lord,’ I said savagely.
The thunder sounded, but further away now, carrying Thor’s anger out to the turbulent sea. The wind still shook the tavern, but with less anger than before. ‘Storm’s passing, I reckon,’ Finan brought me a pot of ale.
‘It’s passing,’ I agreed. I pulled a shutter open, making the flames in the hearth flicker. It was almost dark outside. ‘Send someone to tell Vidarr and Beornoth to come back,’ I said. There was no chance that men from Eanwulf’s troop in Fæfresham would come north in the darkness, so there was no need to watch for them.
‘And tomorrow?’ Finan asked.
‘Tomorrow we rescue a queen,’ I said.
A queen whose feeble revolt against Æthelhelm had failed. And she was my best hope of keeping the oath to kill Wessex’s most powerful lord and his nephew, who, if Finan’s premonition that the storm was sent to mark the death of a king, was king already.
And we had come to make certain his reign was brief.
Tomorrow.
The storm blew itself out overnight, leaving fallen trees, sodden thatch, and flooded marshland. The dawn was damp and sullen, as if the weather was ashamed of the previous day’s anger. The clouds were high, the creek had settled, and the wind was fitful.
I had to decide what to do with the prisoners. My first thought was to put them in a stout shack on the harbour’s western side and leave two men to guard them, but Wighelm’s men were young, they were strong, they were bitter, and they would surely find some way to break out of the shack, and the last thing I wanted was to have vengeful warriors following me south to Fæfresham. Nor did I want to leave any men behind, either to guard the prisoners or to protect Spearhafoc. If we were to go to Fæfresham then I would need all of my men.
‘Just kill the bastards,’ Vidarr Leifson suggested.
‘Put them on the island,’ Finan said, meaning Sceapig.
‘And if they can swim?’
He shrugged. ‘Not many can!’
‘A fishing boat might rescue them.’
‘Then do as Vidarr suggests,’ Finan said, tired of my doubts.
There was a risk in stranding them, but I could think of no better solution and so we herded them onto Spearhafoc, rowed a mile eastwards down the Swalwan Creek, and there found an island of reeds that, judging by the line of flotsam heaped on the shore, did not flood at high tide. We stripped the prisoners naked and sent them ashore, making them carry their four wounded men. Wighelm was the last to go. ‘You can reach Sceapig easily enough,’ I told him. The island of reeds was only a long bow shot from Sceapig’s marshes, ‘but if you hurt anyone ashore I’ll find out and I’ll come for you, and when I find you I’ll kill you slowly, you understand?’
He nodded sullenly. ‘Yes, lord.’ He knew who I was now and he was afraid.
‘All these people,’ I said, gesturing at both Sceapig and the mainland, ‘are under my protection, and I am Uhtredærwe! Who am I?’
‘Uhtred of Bebbanburg, lord,’ he said fearfully.
‘I am Uhtredærwe, and my enemies die. Now go!’
It was midday before we were back in the creek’s harbour and another hour before we set off on the southwards road. We had eaten a poor meal of fish stew and hard bread, cleaned our mail and weapons, and donned the dark red cloaks that were the marks of Æthelhelm’s men. We had captured twenty-four of Æthelhelm’s shields, all painted with the leaping
