The Empty Throne (The Warrior Chronicles, Book 8) (37 page)

‘I did?’

‘He looked at you and it distracted him just long enough.’ I knew I would wake in the night and shiver at the memory of his sword reaching for me, shiver with the certainty that I could never have parried the speed of his attack, shiver with the sliver of fate that had saved me from death. But he had seen Stiorra and he had hesitated.

‘Now he wants to talk,’ she said.

I turned and saw that a Norseman was waving a leaf-heavy branch. ‘Lord?’ Finan called from the gateway.

‘I’ve seen it!’

‘Let him come?’

‘Let him come,’ I said, then plucked Stiorra’s sleeve. ‘You come too.’

‘Me?’

‘You. Where’s Æthelstan?’

‘With Finan.’

‘Was the little bastard in the shield wall?’ I asked, shocked.

‘He was in the rear rank,’ Stiorra said, ‘you didn’t see him?’

‘I’ll kill him.’

She chuckled, then followed me down to the barricade. We jumped into the street and stepped over the fallen masonry and the blood-laced bodies. ‘Æthelstan!’

‘Lord?’

‘Weren’t you supposed to be in the church?’ I demanded. ‘Did I give you permission to join Finan’s shield wall?’

‘I left the church to piss, lord,’ he said earnestly, ‘and I never meant to join Finan’s men. I was just going to watch them from the top of the logs, but I tripped.’

‘You tripped?’

He nodded vigorously. ‘I tripped, lord,’ he said, ‘and fell into the street.’ I saw that Cengar, the boy he had rescued, was protectively close to him, as were two of Finan’s men.

‘You didn’t trip,’ I said, then clipped him around the ear, which, because he was wearing a helmet, hurt me a lot more than it did him. ‘You’re coming with me,’ I said. ‘And you too,’ I added to Stiorra.

The three of us walked under the arch, stepped around the bodies with their heads crushed by rocks, avoided the puddles of shit, then Finan’s ranks parted for us. ‘You two are coming with us,’ I said to Finan and my son. ‘The rest of you stay here.’

We walked thirty or forty paces up the road. I stopped and cupped my hands. ‘You can bring two men!’

Sigtryggr brought just one man, a great beast of a warrior with broad shoulders and a broad black beard into which was woven the jawbones of wolves or dogs. ‘He’s called Svart,’ Sigtryggr said cheerfully, ‘and he eats Saxons for breakfast.’ Sigtryggr had a strip of linen tied about his missing eye. He touched the bandage. ‘You ruined my good looks, Lord Uhtred.’

‘Don’t talk to me,’ I said. ‘I only talk with men. I brought you a woman and a child so you can speak to your equals.’

He laughed. It seemed no insult touched him. ‘Then I shall talk to my equals,’ he said and bowed to Stiorra. ‘Your name, my lady?’

She looked at me, wondering if I really wanted her to conduct the negotiations. ‘I’m not saying anything,’ I spoke to her in Danish, and spoke slowly so Sigtryggr would understand. ‘You deal with the boy.’

Svart growled at the word ‘boy’, but Sigtryggr put a hand on the big man’s gold-bound arm. ‘Down, Svart, they’re playing word riddles.’ He smiled at Stiorra. ‘I am the Jarl Sigtryggr Ivarson, and you are?’

‘Stiorra Uhtredsdottir,’ she said.

‘And I took you to be a goddess,’ he answered.

‘And this is the Prince Æthelstan,’ Stiorra went on. She spoke in Danish, her voice distant and controlled.

‘A prince! I am honoured to meet you, lord Prince.’ He bowed to the boy, who did not understand what was being said. Sigtryggr smiled. ‘The Lord Uhtred said I must talk to my equals and he sends me a goddess and a prince! He honours me!’

‘You wanted to talk,’ Stiorra said coldly, ‘so talk.’

‘Well, lady, I confess matters have not gone as I wished. My father sent me to make a kingdom in Britain, and instead I meet your father. He’s a cunning man, is he not?’

Stiorra said nothing, just gazed at him. She stood tall, proud, and straight-backed, looking so like her mother.

‘Eardwulf the Saxon told us your father was dying,’ Sigtryggr confessed. ‘He said your father was weak as a worm. He said Lord Uhtred is long past his best, that he would never be at Ceaster.’

‘My father still has two eyes,’ Stiorra said.

‘But not as beautiful as yours, my lady.’

‘Did you come to waste our time?’ Stiorra asked. ‘Or did you wish to surrender?’

‘To you, my lady, I would surrender all I have, but my men? You can count?’

‘I can count.’

‘We outnumber you.’

‘What he wants,’ I spoke to Finan in English, ‘is to withdraw to his ships without interference.’

‘And what do you want?’ Finan asked, knowing that our conversation was really for Stiorra’s benefit.

‘He can’t afford another fight,’ I said, ‘he’ll lose too many men. But so will we.’

Sigtryggr did not understand what we said, but he was listening closely, as if some sense might emerge from the foreign language.

‘So we just let them go?’ Finan asked.

‘He can go back to his father,’ I said, ‘but he must leave half his swords behind and give us hostages.’

‘And give us Eardwulf,’ Finan said.

‘And give us Eardwulf,’ I agreed.

Sigtryggr heard the name. ‘You want Eardwulf?’ he asked. ‘He’s yours. I give him to you! He and the rest of his Saxons.’

‘What you want,’ Stiorra said, ‘is a promise that we won’t stop you returning to your ships.’

Sigtryggr pretended to be surprised. ‘I never thought of that, my lady, but yes! What a generous thought. We could return to our ships.’

‘And to your father.’

‘He won’t be happy.’

‘I shall weep for him,’ she said scornfully. ‘And you will leave half your swords here,’ she went on, ‘and we shall take hostages for your good behaviour.’

‘Hostages,’ he said, and for the first time did not sound confident.

‘We shall choose a dozen of your men,’ Stiorra said.

‘And how will those hostages be treated?’

‘With respect, of course, unless you stay on these shores, in which case they will be killed.’

‘You will feed them?’

‘Of course.’

‘Feast them?’

‘We will feed them,’ she said.

He shook his head. ‘I cannot agree to twelve, my lady. Twelve is too many. I will offer you one hostage.’

‘You are ridiculous,’ Stiorra snapped.

‘Myself, dear lady, I offer myself.’

And I confess he surprised me. He also astonished Stiorra, who did not know what to say, but instead looked to me for an answer. I thought for a moment, then nodded. ‘His men can return to their ships,’ I spoke to her in Danish, ‘but half will leave their swords here. They have one day to ready the ships.’

‘One day,’ she said.

‘Two mornings from now,’ I said harshly, ‘we will bring Sigtryggr to his fleet. If the ships are afloat and ready to sail with their crews on board he can join them. If not, he dies. And Eardwulf and his followers must be given to us.’

‘I agree,’ Sigtryggr said. ‘May I keep my sword?’

‘No.’

He unbuckled the sword belt and gave it to Svart, then, still smiling, walked to join us. And so that night we feasted with Sigtryggr.

Æthelflaed arrived the next day. She sent no warning of her coming, but her first horsemen appeared in the mid-afternoon and, an hour later, she rode through the South Gate leading more than one hundred men, all on tired horses white with sweat. She was in her silver mail, her whitening hair ringed with a silver circlet. Her standard-bearer was holding her dead husband’s banner, the flag showing the prancing white horse. ‘What happened to the goose?’ I asked her.

She ignored the question, staring down at me from her saddle. ‘You look better!’

‘I am better.’

‘Truly?’ she asked eagerly.

‘Healed,’ I said.

‘God be thanked!’ She looked up at the clouded sky when she said that. ‘What happened?’

‘I’ll tell you soon enough,’ I answered, ‘but what happened to the goose?’

‘I’m keeping Æthelred’s banner,’ she said brusquely, ‘it’s what Mercia is used to. Folk don’t like change. It’s hard enough for them to accept a woman as their ruler without imposing more new things on them.’ She swung down from Gast’s saddle. Her mail, her boots, and her long white cloak were mud-spattered. ‘I hoped you’d be here.’

‘You ordered me here.’

‘But I did not order you to waste time finding a ship,’ she said tartly. A servant came to take her horse, while her men dismounted and stretched tired limbs. ‘There’s a rumour that Norsemen are coming here,’ she went on.

‘There are always rumours,’ I said dismissively.

‘We heard a report from Wales,’ she ignored my flippant comment, ‘that a fleet was off the coast. It might not be coming here, but there’s empty land north of the Mærse and that might tempt them.’ She frowned, sniffing the air and disliking what she smelt. ‘I did not scour Haki from that land just to make space for another pagan warlord! We have to settle folk on that land.’

‘Sigtryggr,’ I said.

She frowned. ‘Sigtryggr?’

‘Your Welsh spies were right,’ I said, ‘Sigtryggr is the warlord who leads the Norse fleet.’

‘You know about him?’

‘Of course I do! His men are occupying Brunanburh.’

‘Oh God,’ she flinched at the news. ‘Oh God, no! So they did come here! Well that won’t last! We have to get rid of them quickly.’

I shook my head. ‘I’d leave them alone.’

She stared at me in shock. ‘Leave them alone? Are you mad? The last thing we want is Norsemen controlling the Mærse.’ She began striding towards the Great Hall. Two of her priests scurried behind carrying sheaves of parchment. ‘Find a strongbox,’ she talked over her shoulder as she went, ‘and make sure those documents stay dry! I can’t stay long,’ she was evidently talking to me now. ‘Gleawecestre is calm enough, but there’s still much work to do there. Which is why I want those Norsemen gone!’

‘They outnumber us,’ I said dubiously.

She turned around fast, all energy and decision, and jabbed a finger at me. ‘And they’ll be reinforced if we give them any more time. You know that! We must get rid of them!’

‘They outnumber us,’ I said again, ‘and they’re battle-hardened. They’ve been fighting in Ireland, and men learn to be vicious there. If we’re to attack Brunanburh I’d want another three hundred men, at least!’

She frowned, worried suddenly. ‘What’s happened to you? Are you frightened of this man, Sigtryggr?’

‘He’s a lord of war.’

She looked into my eyes, evidently judging the truth of my words and whatever she saw must have convinced her. ‘Dear God,’ she said, still frowning. ‘Your wound, I suppose,’ she added half under her breath, and turned away. She believed I had lost my courage and as a consequence she now had another worry to add to her many burdens. She walked on till she noticed the swords, shields, spears, mail coats, helmets, and axes that were heaped by the Great Hall door beneath Sigtryggr’s banner of the red axe which was nailed to the wall. She stopped, puzzled. ‘What’s that?’

‘I forgot to tell you,’ I said, ‘that the battle-hardened men attacked yesterday. They killed three of our men and wounded sixteen, but we killed seventy-two of theirs, and Sigtryggr is our hostage. We’re keeping him till tomorrow when his fleet sails back to Ireland. You really didn’t need to come! It’s very good to see you, of course, but Merewalh and I are quite capable of dealing with big bad Norsemen.’

‘You bastard,’ she said, though not in anger. She looked at the trophies, then back to me and laughed. ‘And God be thanked,’ she added, touching the silver cross that hung at her breast.

That night we feasted with Sigtryggr again, though the arrival of Æthelflaed with so many warriors meant that the meat was scanty. There was ale enough, and the steward provided skins of wine and a large barrel of mead. Even so, Æthelflaed’s presence meant the mood of the hall was more subdued than the previous night. Men tended to talk more softly when she was in the hall, they were less liable to start fights or bawl their favourite songs about women at the tops of their voices. The mood was made even more sombre by the half-dozen churchmen who shared the top table, where Æthelflaed questioned Merewalh and myself about the fight at the North Gate. Sigtryggr had been given an honourable place at the table, as had my daughter. ‘It was her fault,’ Sigtryggr said, nodding towards Stiorra.

I translated for Æthelflaed. ‘Why her fault?’ she asked.

‘He saw her and was distracted,’ I explained.

‘A pity,’ my daughter said coldly, ‘that he was not distracted for longer.’

Æthelflaed smiled approvingly at that sentiment. She sat very straight, keeping a watchful eye on the hall. She ate little and drank less. ‘So she doesn’t get drunk, then?’ Sigtryggr said to me sourly, nodding at Æthelflaed. He was sitting across the table from me.

‘She doesn’t,’ I said.

‘My mother would be wrestling with my father’s warriors by now,’ he said gloomily, ‘or else out-drinking them.’

‘What is he saying?’ Æthelflaed demanded. She had seen the Norseman glance at her.

‘He complimented you on the wine,’ I said.

‘Tell him it is a gift from my youngest sister, Ælthryth.’

Ælthryth had married Baldwin of Flanders who ruled territory south of Frisia, and if this was Flanders wine I would rather have drunk horse piss, but Sigtryggr seemed to like it. He offered to pour some for Stiorra, but she refused him curtly and went back to her conversation with Father Fraomar, a young priest in Æthelflaed’s service. ‘The wine is good!’ Sigtryggr pressed her.

‘I shall help myself,’ she said distantly. Alone among my family and followers she seemed immune to the Norseman’s appeal. I certainly liked him. He reminded me of myself, or at least of the man I was when I had been young and headstrong and had taken the risks that either end in death or reputation. And Sigtryggr had charmed my men. He had given Finan an arm ring, praised my warriors’ fighting skills, admitted that he had been well beaten, and had promised that one day he would come back to take his revenge. ‘If your father ever gives you another fleet,’ I had said.

‘He will,’ he said confidently, ‘only next time I won’t fight you. I’ll look for an easier Saxon to beat.’

‘Why not stay in Ireland?’ I had asked him.