The Flame Bearer (The Last Kingdom Series, Book 10) (21 page)

‘Lord Æthelhelm’s men,’ I said. I had recognised a couple, while others in the room wore the distinctive dark red cloak of Æthelhelm’s household warriors. They would have recognised me too, except I had taken care to pull the scruffy hood over my head, to straggle hair across my face, and to walk with a stoop and a limp. I also sat in the shadow of a window shutter. I had closed and latched the shutters when we first sat down, but men bellowed at us to open them again. The room was smoky from a hearth, and the breeze through the window helped sweep the smoke away.

‘Why are they all here?’ Cerdic asked.

‘They finished the conquest of East Anglia,’ I said, ‘and they’re waiting for the ships to take them home.’ That, I suspected, was not true, but it was doubtless the story being spread in the small town, and it satisfied Cerdic.

‘You have money?’ a truculent voice demanded.

Swithun tipped some silver onto the barrel table. ‘You have ale?’ he asked the man who had confronted us. I kept my head lowered.

‘Ale, food, and whores, boys. What’s your pleasure?’

The whores worked in the attic that was reached by a ladder in the room’s centre. A table of rowdy men was just beneath the ladder, and every time a girl climbed or descended they banged the table top and roared appreciation. ‘Listen,’ I hissed to my three men, ‘these bastards will be looking for a fight. Don’t let them provoke you.’

‘And if they ask who we are?’ Oswi was nervous.

‘We’re servants to the Archbishop of Eoferwic,’ I said, ‘and we’re travelling to Lundene to buy silk.’ I had decided the tale I had told Renwald would not work ashore. Men would ask who my wife’s family were, and I had no convincing answer. It was better to pose as strangers, and Oswi was right to be nervous. The men in the Goose had the confidence of warriors who knew each other, who loved to show off to each other, and who despised strangers. They were also either drunk or well on the way to being drunk. Fights would start soon enough, but I reckoned men might be cautious before challenging servants of the church.

A huge cheer greeted a man descending the ladder. He was a big man, broad shouldered, with fair hair cropped short. He jumped from the ladder onto the nearest table and bowed to the company, first in one direction, then to the other. ‘His name,’ I said, ‘is Hrothard.’

‘You know him, lord?’ Cerdic seemed impressed.

‘Don’t call me lord,’ I snarled. ‘Yes, I know him. He’s one of Æthelhelm’s dogs.’ I had been surprised that Hrothard was not with Brice at Hornecastre. I knew him because he had been Brice’s second-in-command when they attempted to kill the young Æthelstan in Cirrenceastre, an attempt I had thwarted. Hrothard was very like Brice; a brutal fighter who did his lord’s bidding without pity or remorse.

Hrothard now grinned at his comrades. ‘I wore out two of the beauties, boys! But there’s a ripe little Danish plum just waiting for you!’ Another cheer filled the room.

‘When things calm down,’ I said to Swithun, then paused as a harried girl brought pots and a jug of ale to the table. I waited till she was gone, threading her way through benches and groping hands. ‘When it’s quieter,’ I told him, ‘you’ll go up the ladder.’

He grinned, but said nothing.

‘Find out what the girls know. Be clever about it. Don’t let them think you’re interested, just let them talk.’

That was why we were here, to learn what was brewing in this remote harbour town on the eastern edge of Britain. I doubted any of the tavern’s whores would know much, but every little scrap of information was useful. I had already learned much just by coming here. The town was filled with warriors who should have returned home by now. The marker withies in the treacherous entrance had been aligned with the real channel rather than left to tempt enemy boats onto a wrecking shoal, and that meant that the new rulers of this town were expecting more ships and did not want to lose them. And the real ruler of this town, I had no doubt, was Æthelhelm, and Æthelhelm wanted his revenge on me.

And I knew just what that revenge would be.

I just did not know exactly how he would do it.

‘Jesus,’ Cerdic said, ‘look at that!’ He was gazing through the window, and whatever he had seen had also attracted the attention of other men, who pushed through the door to gaze at the river.

Where a ship had appeared.

I had never seen a ship like her. She was white! Her timbers had been bleached pale by the sun, or more likely had been given a soaking with limewash. The white faded to sour dark green at the waterline, suggesting the limewash had been scoured by the rough seas. She was long and handsome, a Danish vessel I thought, by the look of her, but she was plainly in Saxon hands for her high prow was topped with a cross that glinted silver. Her sail was furled on the yard, but even that looked as if it was made from white sailcloth. A banner had wrapped itself around a shroud so that it flapped impotently, but just as her steersman turned her towards the empty space on the wharf the flag freed itself and streamed proudly out to the east. The banner showed a white stag leaping against a black background.

‘Lord Æthelhelm,’ Swithun murmured.

‘Silence now!’ Hrothard had gone to the door, seen the ship, and now bellowed at the half-drunken men who had crowded out of the tavern to welcome the white ship. ‘Show respect!’

I was standing on the bench to see above the heads of the men who had gone to the wharf to watch the ship’s arrival. Some, a few, wore hats that they pulled off as the vessel slowed. She was, I thought, beautiful. She left hardly a ripple as she ghosted into the sheltered water between the piers. Her lines were perfect, the timbers curved by craftsmen so that she seemed to rest on the water rather than plough through it. The oars gave a last pull and then were thrust out of the oar-holes in the ship’s side and brought inboard as the steersman expertly brought her into the waiting gap. Lines were thrown, men hauled, and she nestled gently into the wharf. ‘The
Ælfswon
,’ a man said admiringly.

The bright swan, a good name, I thought. The rowers slumped on the benches. They must have pulled hard to bring the bright swan through the rising wind and against the spiteful waves heaping at the harbour mouth. Behind them, at the stern of the ship, I saw a group of helmeted warriors, their mail covered by dark red cloaks. They leaped onto the wharf and other men threw them their shields. There were six of them. Was Æthelhelm here?

Two wharf slaves put a wooden walkway across the narrow gap between the ship and the pier. There was a pile of crates and barrels amidships that half hid the people waiting to come ashore, but then two priests appeared, crossed the planks, and after them came a group of women, all of them hooded. The women and the priests stood on the wharf, waiting.

A tall man, his helmet crested with black horsehair and wearing a black cloak, strode over the walkway. It was not Æthelhelm. This man was taller. I saw a glint of gold at his neck as he turned to wait for the last passenger to alight. It was a girl. She was dressed in white and was bare-headed so that her long fair hair streamed in the rising wind. She was slender, tall, and evidently nervous because, as she reached the walkway’s centre, she seemed to lose her balance. For a heartbeat I thought she would fall into the water, but then the tall man in the horsehair helmet reached out, took her arm, and guided her to safety.

The men outside the tavern began to applaud by clapping their hands and stamping their feet. The girl seemed surprised by the noise and turned towards us, and the clear sight of her face made the breath catch in my throat. She was young, blue-eyed, pale, unscarred, wide-mouthed, beautiful, and utterly miserable. I guessed she was thirteen or fourteen, and she was plainly still unmarried or else she would have bound her hair. Two of the women wrapped a fur-trimmed cloak about her thin frame, and one of them pulled the cloak’s hood over the girl’s long hair. The tall man then took her elbow and led her away from the wharf, the women and priests following, all of them protected by the six spear-carrying warriors. The girl hurried by the tavern with her head bowed.

‘Who in Christ’s name is she?’ Swithun asked.

‘Ælswyth, of course,’ one of the men outside the window had overheard the question.

The tall man in the black-tailed helmet walked beside Ælswyth, towering over her by at least a head. He glanced towards us and I instinctively shrank back into the shadows. He did not see me, but I recognised him.

‘And who’s Ælswyth?’ Swithun asked, still gazing at the hooded figure. He, like every man on the waterfront, was transfixed by her.

‘Where are you from?’ the man demanded.

‘Northumbria.’

‘That’s Lord Æthelhelm’s youngest daughter. And you northern rats had better get used to her.’

‘I could get used to that,’ Swithun said reverently.

‘Because she’s going to live in your stinking country, poor lass.’

And the man escorting Ælswyth was Waldhere, my cousin’s war-leader.

And my cousin lacked a wife.

Æthelhelm had planned his exquisite revenge. He was going to Bebbanburg.

Eight

We slept on a pile of filthy straw in an empty stall of the Goose’s stables, sharing the stinking space with six other men. A sliver of hacksilver bought the four of us a breakfast of rock-hard bread, sour cheese, and watery ale. The noise of thunder made me look at the sky, but though the wind still blew hard and the clouds were grey and low, there was no rain and no sign of a storm. Then I realised the thunder was the sound of empty barrels being rolled along the street beyond the tavern yard. I went to the gate and saw men pushing half a dozen vast tuns inland. Another man led a string of pack mules laden with panniers heaped with salt.

I called Swithun to me and gave him silver. ‘Spend the day here,’ I told him, meaning the Goose. ‘Don’t get in a fight. Don’t get drunk. Don’t boast. And keep your ears open.’

‘Yes, lo—’ he managed to stop before saying lord. He took great delight in calling me grandpa when any stranger was in earshot, but when we were alone he found it almost impossible not to say ‘lord’. We were alone now, but there was a score of men in the yard, some splashing water on their faces from a wooden horse trough, others using a latrine along the eastern wall. The latrine was just a deep ditch, topped with a wooden bench, and supposedly flushed by a stream. It stank.

‘Just let the girls talk, and listen to them!’

‘I will, lo— and,’ he hesitated, then looked down at the silver shillings. He seemed surprised by my generosity. ‘Is it all right if I?’ he hesitated again.

‘They’re not going to talk to you unless you pay them,’ I said, ‘and you’re not paying them for words, are you?’

‘No, lor—’

‘Then do your duty.’ I doubted any of the girls would be awake yet, but Swithun headed eagerly into the tavern’s great room.

Oswi looked aggrieved. ‘I could have done—’

‘This afternoon,’ I interrupted him, ‘it will be your turn this afternoon. Swithun will be worn out by then. Now let’s get out of this stench.’

I was curious to discover where the barrels were going, but it took hardly a moment to find the answer because, before we had gone thirty paces from the back gate of the tavern yard, the squealing began. A gang of men was butchering pigs in a wide street that led east into the countryside. Two men wielded axes, the rest had knives and saws. The animals screamed, knowing their fate, the axes swung, and jets of blood spattered on house walls and puddled in the street’s ruts. Dogs yapped at the edge of the slaughter, ravens lodged on the roofs, and women used jugs, bowls, and pails as they tried to collect the fresh blood to mix with oats. The butchers were crudely cutting away shoulders, bellies, loins, and hams that were tossed to men packing the great barrels with layers of meat and salt. The trotters were packed as well, along with the kidneys, but much of the animals was being tossed aside. Heads, guts, hearts, and lungs were being discarded, and the dogs fought over the offal, and women snatched up scraps as yet more screaming beasts were driven forward and had their skulls split open by the blunt blades. The waste of heads and hearts was proof that these men were in a hurry.

‘It ain’t right,’ Cerdic muttered.

‘Wasting the heads like that?’ I asked.

‘Pigs are clever, lord …’ he flinched, ‘sorry. My father kept pigs. He always said they were clever. Pigs know! You have to surprise a pig when you kill him. It’s only fair.’

‘They’re only pigs!’ Oswi said scornfully.

‘It ain’t right. They know what’s happening.’

I let them argue. I was remembering that Father Cuthwulf, who spied for Æthelflaed, had said that the fleet would put to sea after the feast of Saint Eanswida, and we were still weeks away from that day. But just as I spread tales to mislead my enemies, so might Æthelhelm. If this frantic butchery meant anything it surely meant that the fleet would sail much sooner than Saint Eanswida’s day. Maybe within the next few days? Maybe even today! Why else would Ælswyth be here? Her father would not expect the girl to wait for weeks in this bleak East Anglian town, nor would he want his troops idle for so long. ‘We’re going to the harbour,’ I told Oswi and Cerdic.

I had found a rough stick in the tavern’s piles of firewood and I leaned on it as I limped past the Goose. I kept my back bent. It made for slow progress, of course, but I hoped that no one seeing a shabby old man limping broken-backed would suspect it was Uhtred the Warlord. I let Cerdic support one elbow as we crossed the uneven gap between land and wharf. The stick thumped on the planks, and when Cerdic released me I staggered slightly. The wind was stronger here, still whistling in the moored ships’ rigging and whipping the river into hustling white caps.

The one long wharf ran along the river’s bank, and the two piers jutted from it, the rickety structures so crowded with ships that most were moored side by side, sometimes three ships were lashed together, the outer two depending on the inside craft to hold them safe to the pier or wharf. The
Ælfswon
lay halfway down the long wharf, manned by a dozen men who I suspected had slept aboard. There was no more room in the town. Every tavern was crowded, and if Æthelhelm, or whoever commanded these troops, did not move them soon there would be trouble. Idle men make mischief, especially idle men supplied with ale, whores, and weapons.