The Lords of the North (7 page)

There was a madness in Cair Ligualid. A different madness from that which had shed blood
in Eoferwic, but madness just the same. Women were crying, men shouting and children
staring. Mothers held babies towards me as if my touch could heal them. 'You must stop them!'
Willibald had managed to reach my side and was clinging onto my right stirrup.

'Why?'

'Because they're mistaken, of course! Guthred is king!'

I smiled at him. 'Maybe,' I said slowly, as though the idea were just coming to me, 'maybe I
should be king instead?'

'Uhtred!' Willibald said, shocked.

'Why not?' I asked. 'My ancestors were kings.'

'Guthred is king!' Willibald protested. 'The abbot named him!'

That was how Cair Ligualid's madness began. The town had been a haunt of foxes and birds
when Abbot Eadred of Lindisfarena came across the hills. Lindisfarena, of course, is the
monastery hard by Bebbanburg. It lies on Northumbria's eastern coast, while Cair Ligualid is
on the western edge, but the abbot, driven from Lindisfarena by Danish raids, had come to
Cair Ligualid and there built the new church to which we climbed. The abbot had also seen
Guthred in his dreams. Nowadays, of course, every Northumbrian knows the story of how Saint
Cuthbert revealed Guthred to Abbot Eadred, but back then, on the day of Guthred's arrival in
Cair Ligualid, the tale seemed like just another insanity on top of the world's weltering
madness. Folk were shouting at me, calling me king and Willibald turned and bellowed to
Guthred. 'Tell them to stop!'

'The people want a king,' Guthred said, 'and Uhtred looks like one. Let them have him for the
moment.'

A number of younger monks, armed with staves, kept the excited people away from the church
doors. The crowd had been promised a miracle by Eadred and they had been waiting for days,
expecting their king to come, and then I had ridden from the east in the glory of a warrior,
which is what I am and always have been. All my life I have followed the path of the sword.
Given a choice, and I have been given many choices, I would rather draw a blade than settle
an argument with words, for that is what a warrior does, but most men and women are not
fighters. They crave peace. They want nothing more than to watch their children grow, to plant
their seeds and live to see the harvest, to worship their god, to love their family and to be
left in peace. Yet it has been our fate to be born in a time when violence ruled us. The Danes
appeared and our land was shattered, and all around our coasts the long ships with their beaked
prows came to raid

and enslave and steal and kill. In Cumbraland, which is the wildest part of all the Saxon
lands, the Danes came and the Norsemen came and the Scots came, and no one could live in peace,
and I think that when you break men's dreams, when you destroy their homes and ruin their
harvests and rape their daughters and enslave their sons, you engender a madness. At the
world's ending, when the gods will fight each other, all mankind will be stricken with a great
frenzy and the rivers will flow with blood and the sky shall be filled with screaming and the
great tree of life will fall with a crash that will be heard beyond the farthest star, but all
that is yet to come. Back then, in 878 when I was young, there was just a smaller madness at
Cair Ligualid. It was the madness of hope, the belief that a king, born in a churchman's
dream, would end a people's suffering.

Abbot Eadred was waiting inside the cordon of monks and, as my horse came close, he raised
his hands towards the sky. He was a tall man, old and white-haired, gaunt and fierce, with eyes
like a falcon and, surprising in a priest, he had a sword strapped to his waist. He could not
see my face at first because my cheek-pieces hid it, but even when I took off my helmet he
still thought I was the king. He stared up at me, raised thin hands to heaven as if giving
thanks for my arrival, then gave me a low bow. 'Lord King.' he said in a booming voice. The
monks dropped to their knees and stared up at me.

'Lord King,' Abbot Eadred boomed again, 'welcome!'

'Lord King,' the monks echoed, 'welcome.'

Now that was an interesting moment. Eadred, remember, had selected Guthred to be the
king because Saint Cuthbert had shown him Hardicnut's son in a dream. Yet now he thought that
I was the king, which meant that either Cuthbert had shown him the wrong face or else that
Eadred was a lying bastard. Or perhaps Saint Cuthbert was a lying bastard. But as a
miracle, and Eadred's dream is always remembered as a miracle, it was decidedly
suspicious. I told a priest that story once and he refused to believe me. He hissed at me,
made the sign of the cross and rushed off to say his prayers. The whole of Guthred's life was to
be dominated by the simple fact that Saint Cuthbert revealed him to Eadred, and the truth is
that Eadred did not recognise him, but these days no one believes me. Willibald, of course, was
dancing around like a man with two wasps up his breeches, trying to correct Eadred's
mistake, so I kicked him on the side of the skull to make him quiet then gestured towards
Guthred who had taken the hood from his head. This,' I said to Eadred, 'is your king.'

For a heartbeat Eadred did not believe me, then he did and a look of intense anger crossed
his face. It was a sudden contortion of utter fury because he understood, even if no one
else did, that he was supposed to have recognised Guthred from his dream. The anger flared,
then he mastered it and bowed to Guthred and repeated his greeting and Guthred returned it
with his customary cheerfulness. Two monks hurried to take his horse and Guthred
dismounted and was led into the church. The rest of us followed as best we could. I ordered
some monks to hold Witnere and Hild's mare. They did not want to, they wanted to be inside the
church, but I told them I would break their tonsured heads if the horses were lost, and they
obeyed me.

It was dark in the church. There were rushlights burning on the altar, and more on the
floor of the nave where a large group of monks bowed and chanted, but the small smoky lights
hardly lifted the thick gloom. It was not much of a church. It was big, bigger even than the
church Alfred was building in Wintanceaster, but it had been raised in a hurry and the walls
were untrimmed logs and when my eyes became accustomed to the darkness I saw that the roof
was ragged with rough thatch. There were probably fifty or sixty churchmen inside and half
that number of thegns, if the men of Cumbraland aspired to that rank. They were the
wealthier men of the region and they stood with their followers and I noted, with
curiosity, that some wore the cross and others wore the hammer. There were Danes and Saxons
in that church, mingled together, and they were not enemies. Instead they had gathered to
support Eadred who had promised them a god-given king.

And there was Gisela.

I noticed her almost immediately. She was a tall girl, dark haired, with a very long and
very grave face. She was dressed in a grey cloak and shift so that at first I thought she was a
nun, then I saw the silver bracelets and the heavy brooch holding the cloak at her neck. She
had large eyes that shone, but that was because she was crying. They were tears of joy and,
when Guthred saw her, he ran to her and they embraced. He held her tight, then he stepped away,
holding her hands, and I saw she was half crying and half laughing, and he impulsively led
her to me. 'My sister,' he introduced her, 'Gisela.' He still held her hands. 'I am free,' he
told her, 'because of Lord Uhtred.'

'I thank you,' she said to me, and I said nothing. I was conscious of Hild beside me, but
even more conscious of Gisela. Fifteen? Sixteen? But unmarried, for her black hair was still
unbound. What had her brother told me? That she had a face like a horse, but I thought it was a
face of dreams, a face to set the sky on fire, a face to haunt a man. I still see that face so
many years later. It was long, long nosed, with dark eyes that sometimes seemed far away and
other times were mischievous and when she looked at me that first time I was lost. The
spinners who make our lives had sent her and I knew nothing would be the same again.

'You're not married, are you?' Guthred asked her anxiously. She touched her hair that still
fell free like a girl's hair. When she married it would be bound up. 'Of course not,' she said,
still looking at me, then turned to her brother, 'are you?'

'No,' he said.

Gisela looked at Hild, back to me, and just then Abbot Eadred came to hurry Guthred away and
Gisela went back to the woman who was her guardian. She gave me a backwards glance, and I can
still see that look. The lowered eyelids and the small trip as she turned to give me a last
smile.

'A pretty girl,' Hild said.

'I would rather have a pretty woman,' I said.

'You need to marry,' Hild said.

'I am married.' I reminded her, and that was true. I had a wife in Wessex, a wife who
hated me, but Mildrith was now in a nunnery so whether she regarded herself as married to
me or married to Christ I neither knew nor cared.

'You liked that girl,' Hild said.

'I like all girls,' I said evasively. I lost sight of Gisela as the crowd pressed forward
to watch the ceremony which began when Abbot Eadred unstrapped the sword belt from his own
waist and buckled it around Guthred's ragged clothes. Then he draped the new king in a fine
green cloak, trimmed with fur, and put a bronze circlet on his fair hair. The monks chanted
while this was being done, and kept chanting as Eadred led Guthred around the church so that
everyone could see him. The abbot held the king's right hand aloft and no doubt many folk
thought it odd that the new king was being acclaimed with slave chains hanging from his
wrists. Men knelt to him. Guthred knew many of the Danes who had been his father's followers
and he greeted them happily. He played the part of the king well, for he was an intelligent
as well as a good-natured man, but I saw a look of amusement on his face. Did he really
believe he was king then? I think he saw it all as an adventure, but one that was certainly
preferable to emptying Eochaid's shit-pail. Eadred gave a sermon that was blessedly short
even though he spoke in both English and Danish. His Danish was not good, but it sufficed to
tell Guthred's fellow-countrymen that God and Saint Cuthbert had chosen the new king, and
here he was, and glory must inevitably follow. Then he led Guthred towards the rushlights
burning in the centre of the church and the monks who had been gathered about those smoky
flames scrambled to make way for the new king and I saw they had been clustered around three
chests which, in turn, were circled by the small lights.

'The royal oath will now be taken!' Eadred announced to the church. The Christians in the
church went to their knees again and some of the pagan Danes clumsily followed their
example.

It was supposed to be a solemn moment, but Guthred rather spoiled it by turning and
looking for me. 'Uhtred!' he called, 'you should be here! Come!'

Eadred bridled, but Guthred wanted me beside him because the three chests worried him.
They were gilded, and their lids were held by big metal clasps, and they were surrounded by
the flickering rushlights, and all that suggested to him that some Christian sorcery was
about to take place and he wanted me to share the risk. Abbot Eadred glared at me. 'Did he call
you Uhtred?' he asked suspiciously.

'Lord Uhtred commands my household troops,' Guthred said grandly. That made me the
commander of nothing, but I kept a straight face. 'And if there are oaths to be taken,'
Guthred continued, 'then he must make them with me.'

'Uhtred,' Abbot Eadred said flatly. He knew the name, of course he did. He came from
Lindisfarena where my family ruled and there was a sourness in his tone.

'I am Uhtred of Bebbanburg,' I said loudly enough for everyone in the church to hear, and
the announcement caused a hiss among the monks. Some crossed themselves and others just
looked at me with apparent hatred.

'He's your companion?' Eadred demanded of Guthred.

'He rescued me,' Guthred said, 'and he is my friend.'

Eadred made the sign of the cross. He had disliked me from the moment he mistook me for the
dream-born king, but now he was fairly spitting malevolence at me. He hated me because our
family was supposedly the guardians of Lindisfarena's monastery, but the monastery lay in
ruins and Eadred, its abbot, had been driven into exile. 'Did Ælfric send you?' he
demanded.

'Ælfric,' I spat the name, 'is a usurper, a thief, a cuckoo, and one day I shall spill his
rotting belly and send him to the tree where Corpse-Ripper will feed on him.'

Eadred placed me then. 'You're Lord Uhtred's son,' he said, and he looked at my arm rings and
my mail and at the workmanship of my swords and at the hammer about my neck. 'You're the boy
raised by the Danes.'

'I am the boy,' I said sarcastically, 'who killed Ubba Lothbrokson beside a southern
sea.'

'He is my friend,' Guthred insisted.

Abbot Eadred shuddered, then half bowed his head as if to show that he accepted me as
Guthred's companion. 'You will take an oath,' he growled at me, 'to serve King Guthred
faithfully.'

I took a half-step backwards. Oath-taking is a serious matter. If I swore to serve this
king who had been a slave then I would no longer be a free man. I would be Guthred's man, sworn
to die for him, to obey him and serve him until death, and the thought galled me. Guthred saw my
hesitation and smiled. 'I shall free you.' he whispered to me in Danish, and I understood
that he, like me, saw this ceremony as a game.

'You swear it?' I asked him.

'On my life.' he said lightly.

'The oaths will be taken!' Eadred announced, wanting to restore some dignity to the
church that now murmured with talk. He glowered at the congregation until they went quiet,
then he opened one of the two smaller chests. Inside was a book, its cover crusted with
precious stones. 'This is the great gospel book of Lindisfarena.' Eadred said in awe. He
lifted the book out of the chest and held it aloft so that the dim light glinted from its
jewels. The monks all crossed themselves, then Eadred handed the heavy book to an attendant
priest whose hands shook as he accepted the volume. Eadred stooped to the second of the small
chests. He made the sign of the cross then opened the lid and there, facing me with closed eyes,
was a severed head. Guthred could not suppress a grunt of distaste and, fearing sorcery,
took my right arm. 'That is the most holy Saint Oswald,' Eadred said, 'once king of Northumbria
and now a saint most beloved of almighty God.' His voice quivered with emotion. Guthred took a
half-pace backwards, repelled by the head, but I shook off his grip and stepped forward to
gaze down at Oswald. He had been the lord of Bebbanburg in his time, and he had been king of
Northumbria too, but that had been two hundred years ago. He had died in battle against the
Mercians who had hacked him to pieces, and I wondered how his head had been rescued from the
charnel-house of defeat. The head, its cheeks shrunken and its skin dark, looked quite
unscarred. His hair was long and tangled, while his neck had been hidden by a scrap of
yellowed