The Flame Bearer (The Last Kingdom Series, Book 10) (13 page)

Except we were there, and I was in a vengeful mood.

My cousin was still in Bebbanburg.

Æthelhelm was trying to destroy my daughter and her husband.

Constantin had humiliated me by driving me from my ancestral land.

I had not seen Eadith, my wife, in a month.

So someone had to suffer.

Five

Neither Brunulf nor any of his men saw us at first. They could not take their eyes from the horsemen coming from their east, horsemen carrying Northumbrian shields and bright-bladed swords, horsemen intent on killing. Brunulf’s first instinct had been to turn back towards the fort, but half the approaching riders swerved southwards to cut off that retreat. Then one of his men looked west and saw us coming. He shouted a warning, Brunulf turned, and I was close enough to see the look of panic on his face. He had thought he was riding to a talk of peace, and instead death was closing on him from two sides. He wore mail, but no helmet. Nor did he carry a shield. The two priests with him had no protection at all. Brunulf half drew his sword, then hesitated, perhaps hoping that if he offered no resistance he would be given a chance to surrender.

‘We’re on your side!’ I shouted at him. He seemed either too dazed or too scared to understand. ‘Brunulf!’ I bellowed his name. ‘We’re on your side!’

Berg and my son had spurred to join me, one on either side, and I knew they had agreed to protect me. I lurched Tintreg to my right, driving Berg’s horse away. ‘Don’t crowd me!’ I snarled.

‘Take care, lord!’ he called. ‘You’re …’ He was probably about to say ‘old’, but wisely thought better of it.

The men carrying Sigtryggr’s banner had seen us now and they slowed, uncertain. Half a dozen turned towards Brunulf’s party, and I heard one shout that they should attack, and another man yelled that they should retreat, and that confusion was their doom.

We crossed the track south of Brunulf and his men. ‘We’re on your side!’ I shouted at him again, and I saw him nod. Then we were past him. We carried spears and were galloping, while the enemy, fewer in number, were armed with swords and were uncertain what they should do. Some seemed frozen in indecision while others managed to turn their horses and spur away eastwards, but one man, plainly lost in terror and confusion, urged his horse towards us, and all I needed to do was level the spear and lean into the blow. There was anger in me and I nudged Tintreg to the right and thrust the spear’s thick ash shaft forward with the weight of horse and man behind the blade that glanced off the rim of his shield, pierced his mail, broke through leather, skin, and muscle, and ripped into his belly. I let go of the shaft and just grabbed his helmet and pulled him out of the saddle, blood welling around the spearhead. His left foot was trapped in the stirrup and he was dragged, screaming, leaving a smear of blood on the morning turf.

‘I’m not that old,’ I called to Berg, then pulled Serpent-Breath from her scabbard.

‘Prisoners!’ Finan shouted, and I suspected he was shouting at me because I had so blatantly ignored my own insistence that we take men captive.

I cut at a man who managed to bring up his shield in time to block the blow. I saw that the red axe was bright, newly painted over an old badge that had been half scraped from the shield’s willow-boards. The man lunged at me and missed, his blade wasted on my saddle’s cantle. His bearded face, framed by a close-fitting helmet, was a grimace of desperate savagery that suddenly changed to horror, eyes widening, as Berg’s spear thrust into his back. The blow was so savage that I saw the spearhead push the mail outwards at the man’s chest. He opened his mouth, I had a glimpse of missing teeth, and then bright blood bubbled and spilled from his lips.

‘Sorry, lord, not a prisoner,’ Berg said, drawing his sword. ‘I do better.’

‘Lord!’ Finan shouted and I saw him point his sword east. A half-dozen men were galloping away.

‘Those are the ones I want,’ I called to Berg. The six men were well mounted, one had a fine helmet plumed in black horsehair, another rode a horse whose trappings were of gold, but what really betrayed them as the leaders was the presence of the standardbearer, who glanced behind, saw our pursuit, and desperately hurled away the huge flag with its cumbersome staff and false badge.

Behind me men were throwing down shields and raising their arms to show they no longer wanted to fight. Brunulf’s followers seemed safe, huddled around their banner, while my son was herding prisoners, shouting at them to dismount and yield their swords. So we did have prisoners, but not the ones I wanted, and I touched the spurs to Tintreg’s flanks. It was a horse race now, and the six men had a fair start on us, but three of my men were mounted on the smaller, lighter stallions we used for scouting, stallions that were much faster than big beasts like Tintreg, and two of those riders still had spears. They raced alongside the fugitives, then one of them, Swithun, swerved in fast and thrust with his spear, not at a rider, but at the legs of the leading horse. There was a brief howl of pain, then a tumble of flailing legs, the horse rolling, falling, screaming pathetically now, and the thrown rider was pinned beneath the stallion’s body as it slid along the grass, then a second horse ploughed into the thrashing beast and also went down, the other riders were desperately yanking reins to avoid the chaos, and my men closed on them. The man with the black horsehair plume leaped his horse over one of the fallen beasts and looked to be getting away, but Berg reached out and seized the plume, pulled, and the rider was jerked backwards in the saddle and almost fell. Berg seized the man’s arm, pulled again, and this time he did topple. The helmet, loosened by Berg’s first tug, came off and rolled away as the man sprawled on the turf. He still had his sword, and he stood, snarling, and slashed the long blade at Berg’s horse, but the young Norseman was out of reach so the man turned to face the next rider.

Me.

And I understood why, two days before, the two men had left Brunulf’s envoys and returned to the fort rather than come to meet us. They must have recognised me and known I would recognise them, and not just recognise them, but smell the rancid reek of treachery, because facing me, ready to gut Tintreg with his heavy blade, was Brice.

I had a warrior called Brice once, a mean little bastard, who had finally died beneath a Danish blade when we captured Ceaster. Maybe the name made men mean, because the Brice who faced me was just such another malevolent creature. He was red-haired and grey-bearded, a warrior who had fought a score of battles for his master, Æthelhelm, and a man whom Æthelhelm chose whenever there was filthy work needed. It was Brice who had been sent to capture Æthelstan in Cirrenceastre, and Æthelstan would doubtless have died if we had not thwarted the attempt. Now Brice had been trusted to start a war, and he had been thwarted again. He roared in anger as he lunged his sword at Tintreg’s belly. I had turned the stallion, deliberately taking my sword arm away from Brice and he saw the opening and lunged, hoping to disembowel the stallion, but I parried the hard stroke with my left stirrup, the blade piercing the leather to strike against one of the iron strips in my boot. It still hurt, but not half as much as the iron rim of my shield that I slammed down onto Brice’s skull. The blow felled him instantly. I hoped I had not killed the bastard because that was a pleasure which must wait.

‘Want me to kill him?’ Kettil, one of my Danes, must have seen Brice stir.

‘No! He’s a prisoner. Kill that instead,’ I pointed to the horse that had been brought down by Swithun’s spear and was now struggling with a broken leg. Kettil dismounted, exchanged his sword for Folcbald’s axe, and did the necessary. All six fugitives had been subdued, all six were now prisoners.

Folcbald, one of my enormous Frisian warriors, was holding a tall prisoner by the scruff of his neck, or rather by the man’s mail coat, half hoisting him off the turf that was suddenly splashed by the blood of the horse Kettil killed. ‘This one says he’s a priest,’ Folcbald told me cheerfully. He dropped the man and I saw it was Father Herefrith who was wearing a mail coat over his priestly robe. He glared at me, but said nothing.

I smiled and dismounted. I gave Tintreg’s reins to Rorik, who had rescued the vast flag of the red axe. I sheathed Serpent-Breath and dropped my shield onto the turf, ‘So,’ I spoke to Father Herefrith, ‘you’re one of King Edward’s chaplains?’

He still said nothing.

‘Or are you Ealdorman Æthelhelm’s pet sorcerer?’ I asked. ‘That fool there,’ I pointed to Brice, who was still prone on the grass, ‘is Æthelhelm’s man. He’s stupid too, a brute. Good for killing and wounding, very talented at hitting people and skewering them, but he has the brains of a slug. Lord Æthelhelm always sends a clever person along to tell Brice who to hit and who not to hit. That’s why he sent you.’

Father Herefrith just gave me his flat stare, the one that tried to kill by sheer force.

I smiled again. ‘And Lord Æthelhelm told you to provoke a war. He needs to hear that King Sigtryggr’s men attacked you. That’s why you insulted me two days ago. You wanted me to hit you. One blow of mine would have been enough! Then you could have ridden home and bleated to Lord Æthelhelm that I had broken a truce by striking you. That I attacked you! Isn’t that what you wanted?’

His face betrayed nothing. He stayed silent. Flies settled on the dead horse’s head.

‘That failed,’ I went on, ‘so you were forced to pretend to be King Sigtryggr’s men. You always did intend to do that, of course, which is why you brought the shields painted with the red axe, but perhaps you hoped the deception wouldn’t be necessary? But it was, and now that has failed too.’ I raised my right hand and touched a gloved finger to the scar on his cheek. He flinched. ‘You didn’t get that scar by preaching a sermon,’ I said, ‘did one of your choirboys fight back?’

He stepped back to avoid my gloved hand. He still said nothing. He had an empty scabbard hanging at his waist, which told me he had broken the church’s rules by carrying a sword. ‘Are you a priest?’ I asked him. ‘Or just pretending to be one?’

‘I am a priest,’ he growled.

‘But not always. You were a warrior once.’

‘And still am!’ he spat at me.

‘One of Æthelhelm’s men?’ I asked, genuinely interested in his answer.

‘I served Lord Æthelhelm,’ he said, ‘until God convinced me I would achieve more as a servant of the church.’

‘Your god did tell you a pack of lies, didn’t he!’ I pointed to a sword, a fine weapon lying in the grass. ‘You were a warrior,’ I said, ‘so I’ll give you that sword and you can fight me.’ He did not respond to that, did not even blink. ‘Isn’t that what your god wants?’ I asked. ‘My death? I’m shit from the devil’s arse, the devil’s earsling, isn’t that what you called me? Oh, and priest-killer! I’m proud of that one.’ He just stared at me with loathing as I stepped a pace closer. ‘And you said that I was married to a Saxon whore, and for that, priest, I’m going to give you what you want, I’m going to give you provocation. This is for my Saxon wife.’ And then I hit him on the cheek I had touched, and he more than flinched. He fell sideways, blood showing on his face. ‘Only the provocation comes too late for you,’ I said. ‘Aren’t you going to fight back? It’s the only war you’ll get!’

He stood and moved towards me, but I hit him again, this time in the mouth, and hard enough to hurt my knuckles, and I felt the crunch of teeth breaking. He went down a second time and I kicked him in the jaw. ‘That’s for Eadith,’ I told him.

Finan had been watching from horseback and now made a pretend noise as if the kick had hurt him and not Father Herewith. ‘That wasn’t nice of you,’ he said, then grimaced a second time as the priest spat out a tooth and a mouthful of blood. ‘He might have had to preach a sermon this Sunday.’

‘I never thought of that.’

‘And we have company,’ Finan said, nodding southwards.

A stream of horsemen was coming from the fort. Brunulf, I saw, was riding to intercept them, and so I left Father Herewith under Folcbald’s care, hauled myself back into Tintreg’s saddle, and went to meet them.

There was a moment’s confusion as eager young men from the fort looked for enemies to attack, but Brunulf shouted at them to sheathe their weapons, then turned his horse towards me. He looked anxious, confused, and appalled. I checked Tintreg, waited for Brunulf to join me, then looked up at the sky. ‘I’m glad the rain held off,’ I said, as he came close.

‘Lord Uhtred,’ he began, then seemed not to know what to say.

‘I never minded rain when I was young,’ I went on, ‘but as I get older? You’re too young to know.’ I said the last few words to Father Stepan, the young priest who had been accompanying Brunulf when suddenly a peaceful stretch of pastureland was turned into a charnel house. ‘I suppose,’ I was still talking to Stepan, ‘that you were on your way to tell me that you refused to pay customs’ dues to King Sigtryggr?’

Father Stepan looked at Brice, who had staggered to his feet. Blood had run from his scalp to paint his gaunt cheeks and grey beard red. Skull wounds always bleed profusely. Stepan crossed himself, then managed to nod to me. ‘We were, lord.’

‘I never expected you to pay,’ I said. I looked back to Brunulf. ‘You owe me thanks.’

‘I know, lord,’ he said, ‘I know.’ He looked pale. He was just beginning to understand how close he had come to death that day. He looked past me, and I twisted in the saddle to see that Father Herefrith was being marched towards us. The priest’s mouth was a mess of blood.

‘Whose man are you?’ I demanded of Brunulf.

‘King Edward’s,’ he said, still staring at Father Herefrith.

‘And Edward sent you?’

‘He—’ he began, and then seemed not to know what to say.

‘Look at me!’ I snarled, startling him. ‘Did King Edward send you?’

‘Yes, lord.’

‘He sent you to start a war?’

‘He said we were to do whatever Ealdorman Æthelhelm commanded us.’

‘He told you that himself?’

Brunulf shook his head. ‘The order was brought from Wintanceaster.’

‘By Father Herefrith?’ I guessed.