‘Never did like ships, lord.’
‘Her timbers might be useful?’
‘That’s true! A good ship’s timbers will build a couple of cottages. Careful here.’ We had come to a reed-fringed ditch and, once across, Rædwalh led us west towards low wooded hills. We followed a track that wound through ash and elm to a clearing where an old decaying barn stood gaunt in the moonlight. ‘This was part of my father’s steading,’ Rædwalh explained, ‘and part of mine too, but the old fellow who owned the river meadows died ten years back and I bought the land from his widow. She died four years after her old fellow, so we moved into their hall.’ He pushed open a half-collapsed door. ‘It’s dry enough in there, lord. I’ll send ale to you and whatever food the wife can spare. There’s cheese, I know.’
‘You mustn’t go hungry because of us,’ I said, ‘we just need ale.’
‘There’s a spring back and beyond,’ Rædwalh nodded towards the higher ground to the west, ‘and the water’s safe.’
‘Then all I need is shelter.’ I felt in my pouch.
Rædwalh heard the chink of coins. ‘It don’t seem right taking money from you, lord, not for a night’s shelter in an old barn.’
‘I stole the money from a slave-trader.’
‘In that case,’ he grinned and held out a hand. ‘And where are you going, lord? If you don’t mind me asking.’
‘Further north,’ I said, deliberately vague. ‘We’re looking for King Æthelstan’s forces.’
‘North!’ Rædwalh sounded surprised. ‘You don’t need to go north, lord, there’s a fair few hundred of King Æthelstan’s men in Werlameceaster! Both my sons are there, serving Lord Merewalh.’
It was my turn to sound surprised. ‘Werlameceaster?’ I asked. ‘Is that close by?’
‘The good Lord love you, lord,’ Rædwalh said, amused, ‘no more than two dozen miles from here!’
So Merewalh, my friend, was close, and with him were the hundreds of men he had so foolishly marched out of Lundene. ‘Merewalh’s still there?’
‘He was a week ago,’ Rædwalh said. ‘I rode there to give the boys some bacon.’
I felt a sudden surge of hope, of relief. I touched the hammer. ‘So where are we?’ I asked.
‘God love you, lord, this is Cestrehunt!’
I had never heard of the place, though plainly Rædwalh considered it notable. I felt in my pouch again and brought out a piece of gold. ‘Do you have a reliable servant?’
‘I have six, lord.’
‘And a good horse?’
‘Six of those too.’
‘Then can one of your servants ride to Werlameceaster tonight,’ I said, holding out the coin, ‘and tell Merewalh I’m here and that I need help?’
Rædwalh hesitated, then took the coin. ‘I’ll send two men, lord.’ He hesitated again. ‘Is there going to be a war?’
‘There already is,’ I said bleakly, ‘there was fighting in Lundene, and once a war starts it’s hard to stop.’
‘Because we have two kings instead of one?’
‘Because we have one king,’ I said, ‘and a vile boy who thinks he’s a king.’
Rædwalh heard the bitterness in my voice. ‘Ælfweard?’
‘Him and his uncle.’
‘Who won’t stop till they’ve swallowed Mercia,’ Rædwalh said sourly.
‘But what if Mercia swallows Wessex and East Anglia?’ I asked.
He thought about that, then crossed himself. ‘I’d rather there was no war, lord. There’s been too much. I don’t want my sons in a shield wall, but if there has to be war than I pray young Æthelstan wins it. Is that why you’re here, lord? To help him?’
‘I’m here,’ I said, ‘because I’m a fool.’
And I was. I was an impetuous fool, but the gods had brought me close to Æthelstan’s forces, so maybe the gods were on my side.
The morning would tell.
I would not allow a fire. If Waormund had sent men to follow us through the night then a fire, even inside the old barn, would betray us. We ate stale oatcakes and dried fish, drank the water from the spring that Rædwalh had said was pure, and then I ordered the oarsmen to sleep at one end of the old barn, the women and children at the other, while I and my men would stay between them. I put our plunder, the spare clothes, mail coats, money, and spears with the women. Then I made all my men draw their swords. A small moonlight leaked through the barn’s splintered roof, just enough light so that the oarsmen could see the glint of swords. ‘I’m chaining you,’ I told them. There was silence for a couple of heartbeats, then a growl. ‘I’m freeing you too!’ I quietened them. ‘I promised it and I keep my promises. But this night you wear the chains, maybe for the last time. Immar, Oswi! Do it.’
That was why I had brought the chains. The oarsmen were bone-tired, and that might be enough to keep them sleeping all night, but Benedetta’s warning had stayed with me. Men whose ankles were linked by chain would find it impossible to move silently, and any attempt to remove the chain would surely alert us. Benedetta and the women watched as Oswi and Immar threaded the links. There was no way of stapling the chains, so they just tied clumsy knots in their ends.
‘Now sleep,’ I told them, then watched as they sullenly settled on the rancid straw before I took Finan out into the moonlight. ‘We’re going to need sentries,’ I said. We were gazing across the meadows to where the moon-touched river slid silver between the willows.
‘You think the bastards are following us?’
‘They might be, but even if they’re not—
‘We need sentries,’ he interrupted me.
‘I’ll take the first part of the night,’ I said, ‘and you the second. We each need three men with us.’
‘Out here?’ he asked. We were standing just outside the barn.
‘One man out here,’ I said, ‘and you or me inside with the other two.’
‘Inside?’
‘Do you trust the slaves?’ I asked.
‘They’re chained,’ he said.
‘And desperate. They know we’re being pursued. Maybe they think it’s better to run now than wait for
