‘The East Anglians will fight!’ he had continued. ‘But what is East Anglia? Is it a country? Their last Saxon king died a generation ago, they have been ruled by the Danes and now by West Saxons! They are a people without a country and they yearn for a country and in our scripture Saint Peter tells us that those who have no country belong to the country of God. And in that country God is our lord, God is our ruler, and Æthelstan of Mercia is His instrument. And the dispossessed of East Anglia will follow us! They will fight for our god because they want to dwell in God’s country and be God’s people! As are we!’
I had just stared in amazement because men were standing and cheering. I needed to say nothing more because the gamble of leading a few men on a desperate mission to Lundene had been turned into a holy duty. If men had their wish they would have ridden for Lundene that very moment, expecting Æthelhelm’s East Anglian troops to change their allegiance as soon as we showed our banners.
Even Merewalh had been persuaded, but his natural caution still ruled him. ‘We might succeed,’ he allowed, ‘if God is with us. But King Æthelstan must know.’
‘So tell him.’
‘I already sent a messenger.’
‘So Æthelstan can forbid it?’ I challenged him.
‘If he wishes, yes.’
‘So we must wait for his answer?’ I asked. ‘And wait while his advisers debate?’
I had sounded scornful, yet a part of me almost wanted Æthelstan to forbid the madness, but again it was Father Oda who urged boldness. ‘I believe God wishes us to conquer,’ he had told Merewalh, ‘even if a pagan leads us.’
‘Even if I lead them?’ I asked.
‘Even so,’ he had spoken as though there was a stench in his nostrils.
‘You believe it is God’s will?’ Merewalh had asked the priest.
‘I know it is God’s will,’ Oda had said fervently, and so now men scraped shields and burned crosses onto the willow boards. And, watching them, I wondered if I was again making a terrible mistake. The enemy in Lundene was so numerous, and Merewalh had given me just one hundred and eighty men, and sense told me I was being an impetuous fool, yet whenever I felt a temptation to abandon the foolishness a small voice told me that success was possible.
Æthelhelm was gathering his troops in Lundene because there he was safe behind sturdy Roman walls in a city large enough to quarter his growing army. And doubtless he hoped that Æthelstan would attack him there because there is no quicker way to destroy an enemy’s army than to kill it as it assaulted stone walls. Æthelstan could hurl his men at Lundene’s Roman battlements and they would die in their hundreds and the survivors would be hunted and slaughtered across the length and breadth of Mercia. Ælfweard would take the thrones of Wessex, Mercia, and East Anglia, and call them Englaland, before taking his new and even bigger army north to my country of Northumbria.
Yet it was not just numbers. The men of East Anglia might follow Æthelhelm and acknowledge his nephew as their new king, but they did not love either man. Most East Anglians had obeyed Æthelhelm’s summons because to disobey it would be to invite punishment. They were a conquered nation and they harboured a sullen resentment for their conquerors. If I could pierce into the heart of Lundene and cut out the centre of Æthelhelm’s forces they would not want revenge on me. Yet half of that army in Lundene were West Saxons, and how would they respond? I did not know. I did know that many West Saxon lords resented the power and reach of Æthelhelm’s wealth, that they despised Ælfweard as a callow and vicious youth, yet would they welcome Æthelstan?
So yes, there was a chance, if a despairingly small chance, that a sudden lunge into the heart of Lundene would undo the damage made by Edward’s will. Yet I knew that the real reason I wanted to go back was because my enemy was there. The enemy who had humiliated me, the enemy who was doubtless boasting of his triumph over Uhtred of Bebbanburg, the enemy who held my sword.
I was going for revenge.
Finan was not with me that afternoon as we scraped and branded the shields. I had sent him with two of our men and a pair of Brihtwulf’s warriors to wait on the road to Lundene. I had told them to hide themselves beside that road and, just two miles south of Werlameceaster, they had found a spinney of blackthorn and hazel that offered them cover. They waited and did not return until the sun was low in the west, casting long shadows from Werlameceaster’s ramparts.
I was in the hall with Merewalh, Heorstan, and Brihtwulf. The two older men were nervous. Merewalh had accepted my plan after Father Oda’s fiery sermon, but now he was finding nothing but difficulties. The enemy was too strong, Lundene’s walls too high, and the chance of success too low. Heorstan agreed with him, but was less certain that we must fail. ‘The Lord Uhtred,’ he said, half bowing his head towards me, ‘has a reputation for winning. Perhaps we should trust him?’
Merewalh looked at me mournfully. ‘But if you’re defeated before I can bring my troops into the city?’ he asked hesitantly.
‘I die,’ I said curtly.
‘And Brihtwulf and his men die with you,’ Merewalh said unhappily, ‘and they are my responsibility too.’
‘We surprise the
