off their horses.
‘So you killed the man,’ I asked them, ‘but did you ask him who he was?’
‘No, lord,’ the oldest of the four survivors confessed. ‘We didn’t understand his language. And he struggled, lord. He drew a knife.’
‘Who did you think he was?’
The man hesitated, then muttered that he thought their victim was my follower.
‘So you just killed him?’
The man shrugged, ‘Well, yes, lord!’ They had then hurried south, only to discover they were being pursued by a whole army of horsemen.
‘You killed a man,’ I said, ‘because you thought he served me. So why shouldn’t I kill you?’
‘He was shouting, lord. We needed to silence him.’
That was reason enough and I supposed I would have done the same. ‘So what do I do with you?’ I asked. ‘Give you to those men?’ I nodded at the waiting horsemen. ‘Or just kill you?’ They had no answer to that, but nor did I expect one.
‘Be kindest just to kill the bastards,’ Finan said.
‘Lord, please!’ one of them whispered.
I ignored him because a half-dozen horsemen had left the far hilltop and were now riding towards us. They came slowly as if to assure us they meant no harm. ‘Take those four bastards back to the fort,’ I ordered Gerbruht, ‘and don’t kill them.’
‘No, lord?’ the big Frisian sounded disappointed.
‘Not yet,’ I said.
My son had come from the fort and he and Finan rode with me to meet the six men. ‘Who are they?’ my son asked.
‘It’s not my cousin,’ I said. If my cousin had pursued us he would be flaunting his banner of the wolf’s head, ‘and it’s not Einar.’
‘So who?’ my son asked.
A moment later I knew who it was. As the six horsemen drew closer I recognised the man who led them. He was mounted on a fine, tall, black stallion, and wore a long blue cloak that was spread across the horse’s rump. He had a golden cross hanging from his neck. He rode straight-backed, his head high. He knew who I was, we had met, and he smiled when he saw me staring at him. ‘It’s trouble,’ I told my companions, ‘it’s damned trouble.’
And so it was.
The man in the blue cloak was still smiling as he curbed his horse a few paces away. ‘A drawn sword, Lord Uhtred?’ he chided me. ‘Is that how you greet an old friend?’
‘I’m a poor man,’ I said, ‘I can’t afford a scabbard,’ I pushed Serpent-Breath into my left boot, sliding her carefully till the blade was safely lodged beside my calf and the hilt was up in the air.
‘An elegant solution,’ he said, mocking me. He himself was elegant. His dark blue cloak was astonishingly clean, his mail polished, his boots scoured of mud, and his beard close-trimmed like his raven-dark hair that was ringed with a golden circlet. His bridle was decorated with gold, a gold chain circled his neck, and the pommel of his sword was bright gold. He was Causantín mac Áeda, King of Alba, known to me as Constantin, and beside him, on a slightly smaller stallion, was his son, Cellach mac Causantín. Four men waited behind the father and son, two warriors and two priests, and all four glowered at me, presumably because I had not addressed Constantin as ‘lord King’.
‘Lord Prince,’ I spoke to Cellach, ‘it’s good to see you again.’
Cellach glanced at his father as if seeking permission to answer.
‘You can talk to him!’ King Constantin said, ‘but speak slowly and simply. He’s a Saxon so he doesn’t understand long words.’
‘Lord Uhtred,’ Cellach said politely, ‘it’s good to see you again too.’ Years before, when he was just a boy, Cellach had been a hostage in my household. I had liked him then and I still liked him, though I supposed one day I would have to kill him. He was about twenty now, just as handsome as his father, with the same dark hair and very bright blue eyes, but not surprisingly he lacked his father’s calm confidence.
‘Are you well, boy?’ I asked and his eyes widened slightly when I called him ‘boy’, but he managed a nod in reply. ‘So, lord King,’ I looked back to Constantin, ‘what brings you to my land?’
‘Your land?’ Constantin was amused by that. ‘This is Scotland!’
‘You must speak slowly and simply, lord,’ I told him, ‘because I don’t understand nonsense words.’
Constantin laughed at that. ‘I wish I didn’t like you, Lord Uhtred,’ he said, ‘life would be so much simpler if I detested you.’
‘Most Christians do,’ I said, looking at his dour priests.
‘I could learn to detest you,’ Constantin said, ‘but only if you choose to be my enemy.’
‘Why would I do that?’ I asked.
‘Why indeed!’ The bastard smiled, and he seemed to have all his teeth, and I wondered how he had managed to keep them. Witchcraft? ‘But you won’t be my enemy, Lord Uhtred.’
‘I won’t?’
‘Of course not! I’ve come to make peace.’
I believed that. I also believed that eagles laid golden eggs, fairies danced in our shoes at midnight, and that the moon was carved from good Sumorsæte cheese. ‘Maybe,’ I said, ‘peace would be better discussed by a hearth with some pots of ale?’
‘You see?’ Constantin turned to his scowling priests, ‘I assured you Lord Uhtred would be hospitable!’
I allowed Constantin and his five companions to enter the fort, but insisted the rest of his men waited a half-mile away where they were watched by my warriors who lined Weallbyrig’s northern rampart. Constantin, feigning innocence, had asked that all his men be allowed through the gate, and I had just smiled at him for answer and he had the grace to smile back. The Scottish army could wait in the rain. There would be no fighting, not so long as Constantin was my guest, but still they were Scots, and no one but a fool would invite over three hundred Scottish warriors into a fort. A man might as well open a sheepfold to a pack of wolves.
‘Peace?’ I said to Constantin after the ale had been served, bread broken, and a flitch of cold bacon carved into slices.
‘It is my Christian duty to make peace,’ Constantin said piously. If King Alfred had said the same thing I would have known he was in earnest, but Constantin managed to mock the words subtly. He knew I did not believe him, any more than he believed himself.
I had ordered tables and benches fetched into the large chamber, but the Scottish king did not sit. Instead he wandered around the room, which was lit by five windows. It was still gloomy outside. Constantin seemed fascinated by the room. He traced a finger up the small remaining patches of plaster, then felt the almost imperceptible gap between the stone jambs and lintel of the door. ‘The Romans built well,’ he said almost
