The campfires were dense there, burning between low shelters
made of branches and turf. To the south of the crude shelters were a dozen
lavish tents, placed close to the ruins of the old Roman arena, which, even
though it had been used as a convenient quarry, still rose higher than the tents
above which two flags hung motionless in the still air. "If Cynlæf's still here,"
I said, "he'll be in one of those tents."
"Let's hope the bastard's drunk."
"Or else he's in the arena," I said. The arena was built just outside the city
and was a vast hulk of stone. Beneath its banked stone seating were cave-like rooms that, when I had last explored them, were home to wild dogs. "If he
had any sense," I went on, "he'd have abandoned this siege. Left men to keep
the garrison starving, and gone south. That's where the rebellion will be won
or lost, not here."
"Does he have sense?"
"Daft as a turnip," I said, and then started laughing. A group of women
burdened with firewood had stepped off the road to kneel as we passed, and
they looked up at me in astonishment. I waved at them. "We're about to make
some of them widows," I said, still laughing.
"And that's funny?"
I spurred Tintreg into a trot. "What's funny," I said, "is that we're two old
men riding to war."
"You, maybe," Finan said pointedly.
"You're my age!"
"I'm not a grandfather!"
"You might be. You don't know."
"Bastards don't count."
"They do," I insisted.
"Then you're probably a great-grandfather by now."
I gave him a harsh look. "Bastards don't count," I snarled, making him
laugh, then he made the sign of the cross because we had reached the Roman
cemetery that stretched either side of the road. There were ghosts here, ghosts
wandering between the lichen-covered stones with their fading inscriptions
that only Christian priests who understood Latin could read. Years before, in a
fit of zeal, a priest had started throwing down the stones, declaring they were
pagan abominations. That very same day he was struck down dead and ever
since the Christians had tolerated the graves, which, I thought, must be
protected by the Roman gods. Bishop Leofstan had laughed when I told him
that story, and had assured me that the Romans were good Christians. "It was
our god, the one true god, who slew the priest," he had told me. Then
Leofstan himself had died, struck down just as suddenly as the grave-hating
priest. Wyrd bið ful āræd.
My men were strung out now, not quite in single file, but close. None
wanted to ride too near the road's verges because that was where the ghosts
gathered. The long, straggling line of horsemen made us vulnerable, but the
enemy seemed oblivious to our threat. We passed more women, all bent beneath great burdens of firewood they had cut from spinneys north of the
graves. The nearest campfires were close now. The afternoon's light was
fading, though dusk was still an hour or more away. I could see men on the
northern city wall, see their spears, and knew they must be watching us. They
would think we were reinforcements come to help the besiegers.
I curbed Tintreg just beyond the old Roman cemetery to let my men catch
up. The sight of the graves and thinking of Bishop Leofstan had brought back
memories. "Remember Mus?" I asked Finan.
"Christ! How could anyone forget her?" He grinned. "Did you . . ." he
began.
"Never. You?"
He shook his head. "Your son gave her a few good rides."
I had left my son in command of the troops garrisoning Bebbanburg.
"He's a lucky boy," I said. Mus, her real name was Sunngifu, was small like a
mouse, and had been married to Bishop Leofstan. "I wonder where Mus is
now?" I asked. I was still gazing at Ceaster's northern wall, trying to estimate
how many men stood guard on the ramparts. "More than I expected," I said.
"More?"
"Men on the wall," I explained. I could see at least forty men on the
ramparts, and knew there must be just as many on the eastern wall, which
faced the bulk of the enemy.
"Maybe they were reinforced?" Finan suggested.
"Or the monk was wrong, which wouldn't surprise me."
A monk had come to Bebbanburg with news of Ceaster's siege. We
already knew of the Mercian rebellion, of course, and we had welcomed it. It
was no secret that Edward, who now styled himself King of the Angles and
Saxons, wanted to invade Northumbria and so make that arrogant title come
true. Sigtryggr, my son-in-law and King of Northumbria, had been preparing
for that invasion, fearing it too, and then came the news that Mercia was
tearing itself apart, and that Edward, far from invading us, was fighting to
hold onto his new lands. Our response was obvious; do nothing! Let Edward's
realm tear itself into shreds, because every Saxon warrior who died in Mercia
was one less man to bring a sword into Northumbria.
Yet here I was, on a late winter's afternoon beneath a darkening sky,
coming to fight in Mercia. Sigtryggr had not been happy, and his wife, my
daughter, even unhappier. "Why?" she had demanded.
"I took an oath," I had told them both, and that had stilled their protests.
Oaths are sacred. To break an oath is to invite the anger of the gods, and
Sigtryggr had reluctantly agreed to let me relieve the siege of Ceaster. Not
that he could have done much to stop me; I was his most powerful lord, his
father-in-law, and the Lord of Bebbanburg, indeed he owed me his kingdom,
but he insisted I take fewer than a hundred warriors. "Take more," he had
said, "and the damned Scots will come over the frontier." I had agreed. I led
just ninety men, and with those ninety I intended to save King Edward's new
kingdom.
"You think Edward will be grateful?" my daughter had asked, trying to
find some good news in my perverse decision. She was thinking that
Edward's gratitude might persuade him to abandon his plans to invade
Northumbria.
"Edward will think I'm a fool."
"You are!" Stiorra had said.
"Besides, I hear he's sick."
"Good," she had said vengefully. "Maybe his new wife has worn him
out?"
Edward would not be grateful, I thought, whatever happened here. Our
horses' hooves were loud on the Roman road. We still rode slowly, showing
no threat. We passed the old worn stone pillar that said it was one mile to
Deva, the name the Romans had given Ceaster. By now we were among the
hovels and campfires of the encampment, and folk watched us pass. They
showed no alarm, there were no sentries, and no one challenged us. "What's
wrong with them?" Finan growled at me.
"They think that if relief comes," I said, "it'll come from the east, not the
north. So they think we're on their side."
"Then they're idiots," he said. He was right, of course. Cynlæf, if he still
commanded here, should have sentries posted on every approach to the
besiegers' camp, but the long cold weeks of the siege had made them lazy and
careless. Cynlæf just wanted to capture Ceaster, and had forgotten to watch
his back.
Finan, who had the eyes of a hawk, was gazing at the city wall. "That
monk was full of shit," he said scornfully. "I can see fifty-eight men on the
north wall!"
The monk who had brought me the news of the siege had been certain that
the garrison was perilously small. "How small?" I had asked him.
"No more than a hundred men, lord."
I had looked at him skeptically. "How do you know?"
"The priest told me, lord," he said nervously. The monk, who was called
Brother Osric, claimed to be from a monastery in Hwite, a place I had never
heard of, but which the monk said was a few hours' walking south of Ceaster.
Brother Osric had told us how a priest had come to his monastery. "He was
dying, lord! He had gripe in his guts."
"And that was Father Swithred?"
"Yes, lord."
I knew Swithred. He was an older man, a fierce and sour priest who
disliked me. "And the garrison sent him to get help?"
"Yes, lord."
"They didn't send a warrior?"
"A priest can go where warriors cannot, lord," Brother Osric had
explained. "Father Swithred said he left the city at nightfall and walked
through the besiegers' camp. No one challenged him, lord. Then he walked
south to Hwite."
"Where he was taken ill?"
"Where he was dying as I left, lord," Brother Osric had made the sign of
the cross. "It is God's will."
"Your god has a strange will," I had snarled.
"And Father Swithred begged my abbot to send one of us to reach you,
lord," Brother Osric had continued, "and that was me," he finished lamely. He
had been kneeling in supplication, and I saw a savage red scar crossing his
tonsure.
"Father Swithred doesn't like me," I said, "and he hates all pagans. Yet he
sent for me?"
The question had made Brother Osric uncomfortable. He had blushed,
then stammered, "He . . . he . . ."
"He insulted me," I suggested.
"He did, lord, he did." He sounded relieved that I had anticipated an
answer he had been reluctant to say aloud. "But he also said you would
answer the garrison's plea."
"And Father Swithred didn't carry a letter?" I asked, "a plea for help?"
"He did, lord, but he vomited on it." He had grimaced. "But it was nasty, lord, all blood and bile."
"How did you get the scar?" I had asked him.
"My sister hit me, lord." He had sounded surprised at my question. "With
a reaping hook, lord."
"And how many men in the besieging force?"
"Father Swithred said there were hundreds, lord." I remember how
nervous Brother Osric had been, but I put that down to his fear at meeting me,
a famous pagan. Did he think I had horns and a forked tail? "By God's grace,
lord," he went on, "the garrison fought off one assault, and I pray to God that
the city hasn't fallen by now. They beseech your help, lord."
"Why hasn't Edward helped?"
"He has other enemies, lord. He's fighting them in southern Mercia." The
monk had looked up beseechingly. "Please, lord! The garrison can't last
long!"
Yet they had lasted, and we had come. We had left the road by now, and
our horses walked slowly through the besiegers' encampment. The luckiest
folk had found shelter in the farm buildings that had been made by the
Romans. They were good stone buildings, though the long years had
destroyed their roofs, which were now untidy heaps of thatch on beams, but
most people were in crude shelters. Women were feeding the fires with newly
gathered wood, readying to cook an evening meal. They seemed incurious
about us. They saw my mail coat and silver-crested helmet, saw the silver
ornaments on Tintreg's bridle, and so realized I was a lord and dutifully knelt
as I passed, but none dared ask who we were.
I halted in an open space to the northeast of the city. I gazed around,
puzzled because I could see few horses. The besiegers must have horses. I had
planned to drive those horses away to prevent men using them to escape, as
well as to capture the beasts to defray the costs of this winter journey, but I
could see no more than a dozen. If there were no horses then we had the
advantage, and so I turned Tintreg and walked him back through my men
until I reached the packhorses. "Unbundle the spears," I ordered the boys.
There were eight heavy bundles tied with leather ropes. Each spear was about
seven feet long with an ash shaft and a sharpened steel blade. I waited as the
bundles were untied and as each of my men took one of the weapons. Most
also carried a shield, but a few preferred to ride without the heavy willow
boards. The enemy had let us come into the center of their encampment and
they must have seen my men taking their spears, yet still they did nothing
except watch us dully. I waited for the boys to coil the leather ropes, then climb back into their saddles. "You boys," I called to the servants, "ride east,
wait out in the fields till we send for you. Not you, Rorik."