that too was an augury, but I could not read it.
‘My men are good men,’ Odda said, ‘but if they are outflanked?’ Fear was still haunting him. ‘It would be better,’ he went on, ‘if Ubba were to attack us.’
‘It would be better,’ I agreed, ‘but Ubba will do nothing unless the runesticks tell him to do it.’
Fate is all. Ubba knew that, which is why he read the signs from the gods, and I knew the owl had been a sign, and it had flown over our heads, across the Danish ships and gone towards that distant fire burning along the Sæfern’s shore, and I suddenly remembered King Edmund’s four boats coming to the East Anglian beach and the fire-arrows thumping into the beached Danish ships and I realised I could read the auguries after all. ‘If your men are outflanked,’ I said, ‘they will die. But if the Danes are outflanked, they will die. So we must outflank them.’
‘How?’ Odda asked bitterly. All he could see was slaughter in the dawn; an attack, a fight and a defeat, but I had seen the owl. The owl had flown from the ships to the fire, and that was the sign. Burn the ships. ‘How do we outflank them?’ Odda asked.
And still I remained silent, wondering if I should tell him. If I followed the augury it would mean splitting our forces, and that was the mistake the Danes had made at Æsc’s Hill, and so I hesitated, but Odda had not come to me because he suddenly liked me, but because I had been defiant with Ubba. I alone on Cynuit was confident of victory, or seemed to be, and that, despite my age, made me the leader on this hill. Ealdorman Odda, old enough to be my father, wanted my support. He wanted me to tell him what to do, me who had never been in a great shield wall, but I was young and I was arrogant and the auguries had told me what must be done, and so I told Odda.
‘Have you ever seen the sceadugengan?’ I asked him.
His response was to make the sign of the cross.
‘When I was a child,’ I said, ‘I dreamed of the sceadugengan. I went out at night to find them and I learned the ways of the night so I could join them.’
‘What has that to do with the dawn?’ he asked.
‘Give me fifty men,’ I said, ‘and they will join my men and at dawn they will attack there.’ I pointed towards the ships. ‘We’ll start by burning their ships.’
Odda looked down the hill at the nearer fires which marked where the enemy sentries were posted in the meadow to our east. ‘They’ll know you’re coming,’ he said, ‘and be ready for you.’ He meant that a hundred men could not cross Cynuit’s skyline, go downhill, break through the sentries and cross the marsh in silence. He was right. Before we had gone ten paces the sentries would have seen us and the alarm would be sounded and Ubba’s army, that was surely as ready for battle as our own, would stream from its southern encampment to confront my men in the meadow before they reached the marsh.
‘But when the Danes see their ships burning,’ I said, ‘they will go to the river’s bank, not to the meadow. And the riverbank is hemmed by marsh. They can’t outflank us there.’ They could, of course, but the marsh would give them uncertain footing so it would not be so dangerous as being outflanked in the meadow.
‘But you will never reach the riverbank,’ he said, disappointed in my idea.
‘A Shadow-Walker can reach it,’ I said.
He looked at me, said nothing.
‘I can reach it,’ I said, ‘and when the first ship burns every Dane will run to the bank, and that’s when the hundred men make their charge. The Danes will be running to save their ships, and that will give the hundred men time to cross the marsh. They go as fast as they can, they join me, we burn more ships, and the Danes will be trying to kill us.’ I pointed to the riverbank, showing where the Danes would go from their camp along the strip of firm ground to where the ships were beached, ‘and when the Danes are all on that bank,’ I went on, ‘between the river and the marsh, you lead the fyrd to take them in the rear.’
He brooded, watching the ships. If we attacked at all then the obvious place was down the southern slope, straight into the heart of Ubba’s forces, and that would be a battle of shield wall against shield wall, our nine hundred men against his twelve hundred, and at the beginning we would have the advantage for many of Ubba’s men were posted around the hill and it would take time for those men to hurry back and join the Danish ranks, and in that time we would drive deep into their camp, but their numbers would grow and we might well be stopped, outflanked and then would come the hard slaughter. And in that hard slaughter they would have the advantage of numbers and they would wrap around our ranks and our rearmost men, those with sickles instead of weapons, would begin to die.
But if I went down the hill and began to burn the boats then the Danes would race down the riverbank to stop me, and that would put them on the narrow strip of riverside land, and if the hundred men under Leofric joined me, then we might hold them long enough for Odda to reach their rear and then it would be the Danes who would die, trapped between Odda, my men, the marsh and the river. They would be trapped like the Northumbrian army had been trapped at Eoferwic.
But at Æsc’s Hill disaster had come to the side which first split its forces.
‘It could work,’ Odda said tentatively.
‘Give me fifty men,’ I urged him, ‘young ones.’
‘Young?’
‘They have to run down the hill,’ I said. ‘They have to go fast. They have to reach the ships before the Danes, and they must do it in the dawn.’ I spoke with a confidence I did not feel and I paused for his agreement, but he said nothing. ‘Win this, lord,’ I said, and I did not call him ‘lord’ because he outranked me, but because he was older than me, ‘then you will have saved Wessex. Alfred will reward you.’
He thought for a while and maybe it was the thought of a reward that persuaded him, for he nodded. ‘I will give you fifty men,’ he said.
Ravn had given me much advice and all of it was good, but now, in the night wind, I remembered just one thing he had said to me on the night we first met, something I had never forgotten.
Never, he had said, never fight Ubba.
The fifty men were led by the shire reeve, Edor, a man who looked as hard as Leofric and, like Leofric, had fought in the big shield walls. He carried a cut-off boar spear as his favourite weapon, though a sword was strapped to his side. The spear, he said, had the weight and strength to punch through mail and could even break through a shield.
Edor, like Leofric, had simply accepted my idea. It never occurred to me that they might not accept it, yet looking back I am astonished that the battle of Cynuit was fought according to the idea of a twenty-year-old who had never stood in a slaughter wall. Yet I was tall, I was a lord, I had grown up among warriors, and I had the arrogant confidence of a man born to battle. I am Uhtred, son of Uhtred, son of another Uhtred, and we had not held Bebbanburg and its lands by whimpering at altars. We are warriors.
Edor’s men and mine assembled behind Cynuit’s eastern rampart where they would wait until the first ship burned in the dawn. Leofric was on the right with the Heahengel’s crew, and I wanted him there because that was where the blow would fall when Ubba led his men to attack us at the river’s edge. Edor and the men of Defnascir were on the left and their chief job, apart from killing whoever they first met on the riverbank, was to snatch up flaming timbers from the Danish fires and hurl them into more ships. ‘We’re not trying to burn all
