you?’ he snarled at the prisoners and, when none answered, he gave the nearest man a brutal kick in the ribs. ‘Who are you?’ he asked again.
The man lifted his head. He was elderly, at least forty years old, and had a deep lined face on which was etched the resignation of those who knew they were about to die. ‘I am Earl Sihtric,’ he said, ‘counsellor to King Æthelstan.’
‘Guthrum!’ Sigefrid screamed, and it was a scream. A scream of pure rage that erupted from nowhere. One moment he had been affable, but suddenly he was a demon. Spittle flew from his mouth as he shrieked the name a second time. ‘Guthrum! His name is Guthrum, you bastard!’ He kicked Sihtric in the chest, and I reckoned that kick was hard enough to break a rib. ‘What is his name?’ Sigefrid demanded.
‘Guthrum,’ Sihtric said.
‘Guthrum!’ Sigefrid shouted, and kicked the old man again. Guthrum, when he made peace with Alfred, had become a Christian and taken the Christian name Æthelstan as his own. I still thought of him as Guthrum, as did Sigefrid, who now appeared to be trying to stamp Sihtric to death. The old man attempted to evade the blows, but Sigefrid had driven him to the ground from where he could not escape. Erik seemed unmoved by his brother’s savage anger, yet after a while he stepped forward and took Sigefrid’s arm and the bigger man allowed himself to be pulled away. ‘Bastard!’ Sigefrid spat back at the moaning man. ‘Calling Guthrum by a Christian name!’ he explained to me. Sigefrid was still shaking from his sudden anger. His eyes had narrowed and his face was contorted, but he seemed to control himself as he draped a heavy arm around my shoulder. ‘Guthrum sent them,’ he said, ‘to tell me to leave Lundene. But it’s none of Guthrum’s business! Lundene doesn’t belong to East Anglia! It belongs to Mercia! To King Uhtred of Mercia!’ That was the first time anyone had used that title so formally, and I liked the sound of it. King Uhtred. Sigefrid turned back to Sihtric who now had blood at his lips. ‘What was Guthrum’s message?’
‘That the city belongs to Mercia, and you must leave,’ Sihtric managed to say.
‘Then Mercia can throw me out,’ Sigefrid sneered.
‘Unless King Uhtred allows us to stay?’ Erik suggested with a smile.
I said nothing. The title sounded good, but strange, as if it defied the strands coming from the three spinners.
‘Alfred will not permit you to stay.’ One of the other prisoners dared to speak.
‘Who gives a turd about Alfred?’ Sigefrid snarled. ‘Let the bastard send his army to die here.’
‘That is your reply, lord?’ the prisoner asked humbly.
‘My reply will be your severed heads,’ Sigefrid said.
I glanced at Erik then. He was the younger brother, but clearly the one who did the thinking. He shrugged. ‘If we negotiate,’ he explained, ‘then we give time for our enemies to gather their forces. Better to be defiant.’
‘You’ll pick war with both Guthrum and Alfred?’ I asked.
‘Guthrum won’t fight,’ Erik said, sounding very certain. ‘He threatens, but he won’t fight. He’s getting old, Lord Uhtred, and he would prefer to enjoy what life is left to him. And if we send him severed heads? I think he will understand the message that his own head is in danger if he disturbs us.’
‘What of Alfred?’ I asked.
‘He’s cautious,’ Erik said, ‘isn’t he?’
‘Yes.’
‘He’ll offer us money to leave the city?’
‘Probably.’
‘And maybe we’ll take it,’ Sigefrid said, ‘and stay anyway.’
‘Alfred won’t attack us till the summer,’ Erik said, ignoring his brother, ‘and by then, Lord Uhtred, we hope you will have led Earl Ragnar south into East Anglia. Alfred can’t ignore that threat. He will march against our combined armies, not against the garrison in Lundene, and our job is to kill Alfred and put his nephew on the throne.’
‘Æthelwold?’ I asked dubiously. ‘He’s a drunk.’
‘Drunk or not,’ Erik said, ‘a Saxon king will make our conquest of Wessex more palatable.’
‘Until you need him no longer,’ I said.
‘Until we need him no longer,’ Erik agreed.
The big-bellied priest at the end of the line of kneeling prisoners had been listening. He stared at me, then at Sigefrid, who saw his gaze. ‘What are you looking at, turd?’ Sigefrid demanded. The priest did not answer, but just looked at me again, then dropped his head. ‘We’ll start with him,’ Sigefrid said, ‘we’ll nail the fat bastard to a cross and see if he dies.’
‘Why not let him fight?’ I suggested.
Sigefrid stared at me, unsure he had heard me correctly. ‘Let him fight?’ he asked.
‘The other priest is skinny,’ I said, ‘so much easier to nail to the cross. That fat one should be given a sword and made to fight.’
Sigefrid sneered. ‘You think a priest can fight?’
I shrugged as though I did not care one way or the other. ‘It’s just that I like seeing those fat-bellied ones lose a fight,’ I explained. ‘I like seeing their bellies slit open. I like watching their guts spill out.’ I was staring at the priest as I spoke and he looked up again to gaze into my eyes. ‘I want to see yards of gut spilled out,’ I said wolfishly, ‘and then watch as your dogs eat his intestines while he’s still alive.’
‘Or make him eat them himself,’ Sigefrid said thoughtfully. He suddenly grinned at me. ‘I like you, Lord Uhtred!’
‘He’ll die too easily,’ Erik said.
‘Then give him something to fight for,’ I said.
‘What can that fat pig of a priest fight for?’ Sigefrid demanded scornfully.
I said nothing, and it was Erik who supplied the answer. ‘His freedom?’ he suggested. ‘If he wins then all prisoners go free, but if he loses then we crucify them all. That should make him fight.’
‘He’ll still lose,’ I said.
‘Yes, but he’ll make an effort,’ Erik said.
Sigefrid laughed, amused by the incongruity of the suggestion. The priest, half naked, big-bellied and terrified, looked at each of us in turn but saw nothing but amusement and ferocity. ‘Ever held a sword, priest?’ Sigefrid demanded of the fat man. The priest said nothing.
I mocked his silence with laughter. ‘He’ll only flail around like a pig,’ I said.
‘You want to fight him?’ Sigefrid asked.
‘He wasn’t sent as an envoy to me, lord,’ I said respectfully. ‘Besides, I’ve heard there is no one to match your skill with a blade. I challenge you to make a cut straight across his belly button.’
Sigefrid
