‘I have heard of Einar,’ Berg put in. ‘He is a Norseman who followed Grimdahl when he rowed into the rivers of the white land.’ The white land was the vast expanse that lay somewhere beyond the home of the Danes and the Norse, a land of long winters, of white trees, white plains, and dark skies. Giants were said to live there, and folk who had fur instead of clothes, and claws that could rip a man open from the bellybutton to the spine.
‘The white land,’ my son said, ‘is that why he’s called the White?’
‘It is because he bleeds his enemies white,’ Berg said.
I scoffed at that, but still touched the hammer at my neck. ‘Is he good?’ my son asked.
‘He’s a Norseman,’ Berg said proudly, ‘so of course he is a great fighter!’ He paused. ‘But I have also heard him called something else.’
‘Something else?’
‘Einar the Unfortunate.’
‘Why unfortunate?’ I asked.
Berg shrugged. ‘His ships go aground, his wives die.’ He touched the hammer hanging at his neck so that the misfortunes he described would not touch him. ‘But he is known to win battles too!’
Unfortunate or not, I thought, Einar’s one hundred and fifty hardened Norse warriors were a formidable addition to Bebbanburg’s strength, so formidable that my cousin was evidently refusing to let them into his fortress for fear that they would turn on him and become the new owners of Bebbanburg. He was quartering them in the village instead, and I did not doubt that he would soon give them horses and send them to harry my forces. Einar’s men were not there to defend Bebbanburg’s walls, but to drive my men far away from those ramparts. ‘They’ll come soon,’ I said.
‘They’ll come?’
‘Waldhere and Einar,’ I said. ‘I doubt they’ll come tomorrow, but they’ll come soon.’ My cousin would want to end this quickly. He wanted me dead. The gold at Einar’s neck and around his wrists was evidence of the money my cousin had paid to bring warriors to kill me, and the longer they stayed the more gold they would cost him. If not tomorrow, I thought, then within the week.
‘There, lord!’ Berg called, pointing northwards.
A horseman was on the northern hill.
The man was motionless. He carried a spear, its blade slanting downwards. He watched us for a moment, then turned and rode beyond the distant crest. ‘That’s the third today,’ my son said.
‘Two yesterday, lord,’ Rorik said.
‘We should kill one or two of them,’ Berg said vengefully.
‘Why?’ I asked. ‘I want my cousin to know where we are. I want him to come to our spears.’ The horsemen were scouts and I assumed they had been sent by my cousin to watch us. They were good at their business. For days now they had formed a wide loose cordon around us, a cordon that was invisible for much of the time, but I knew it was always there. I caught a last glimpse of another horseman just as the sun sank behind the western hills. The dying sun reflected blood-red off his spear-point, then he was gone into the shadows as he rode towards Bebbanburg.
‘Twenty-six head of cattle today,’ Finan told me, ‘and four horses.’ While I had been taunting my cousin by taking men close to his fort, Finan had been hunting for plunder south of Ætgefrin. He had sent the captured cattle on a drove road that would take them eventually to Dunholm. ‘Erlig and four men took them,’ he told me, ‘and there were scouts down south, just a couple.’
‘We saw them north and east,’ I said, ‘and they’re good,’ I added grudgingly.
‘And now he has a hundred and fifty new warriors?’ Finan asked dubiously.
I nodded. ‘Norsemen, all of them hired spears under a man called Einar the White.’
‘Another one to kill then,’ Finan said. He was an Irishman and my oldest friend, my second-in-command and my companion of uncounted shield walls. He had grey hair now, and a deeply lined face, but so, I guessed, did I. I was getting old, and I wanted to die peacefully in the fortress that was mine by right.
I had reckoned it would take me a year to capture Bebbanburg. First, through the summer, autumn, and winter, I would destroy the fortress’s food supply by killing or capturing the cattle and sheep that lived on the wide lands and green hills. I would break the granaries, burn the haystacks, and send ships to destroy my cousin’s fishing boats. I would drive his frightened tenants to seek shelter behind his high walls so that he would have many mouths and little food. By spring they would be starving, and starving men are weak, and by the time they were eating rats we would attack.
Or so I hoped.
We make plans, but the gods and the three Norns at the foot of Yggdrasil decide our fate. My plan was to weaken, starve, and eventually kill my cousin and his men, but wyrd bið ful ãræd.
I should have known.
Fate is inexorable. I had hoped to tempt my cousin into the valley east of Ætgefrin where we could make the two streams run red with their blood. There was little shelter at Ætgefrin. It was a hilltop fort, one built by the ancient people who lived in Britain before even the Romans came. The old fort’s earthen walls had long decayed, but the shallow remnant of the ditch still ringed the high summit. There was no settlement there, no buildings, no trees, just the great hump of the high hill under the incessant wind. It was an uncomfortable place to camp. There was no firewood, and the nearest water was a half-mile away, but it did have a view. No one could approach unseen, and if my cousin did dare send men then we would see them approaching and we would have the high ground.
He did not come. Instead, three days after I had confronted Waldhere, we saw a single rider approach from the south. He was a small man riding a small horse, and he was wearing a black robe that flapped in the wind, which still blew strong and cold from the distant sea. The man gazed up at us, then kicked his diminutive beast towards the steep slope. ‘It’s a priest,’ Finan said sourly, ‘which means they want to talk instead of fight.’
‘You think my cousin sent him?’ I asked.
‘Who else?’
‘Then why’s he coming from the south?’
‘He’s a priest. He couldn’t find his own arse if you turned him around and kicked it for him.’
I looked for any sight of a scout watching us, but saw none. We had seen none for two days. That absence of scouts persuaded me that my cousin was brewing mischief, and so we had ridden to Bebbanburg that day and gazed at the fortress where we saw the mischief for ourselves. Einar’s men were making a new palisade across the isthmus of sand that led to Bebbanburg’s rock. That, it seemed, was the Norsemen’s defence, a new outer wall. My cousin did not trust them inside his stronghold, so they were making a new refuge that would have to be overcome before we could assault first the Low Gate and then the High. ‘The bastard’s gone to ground,’ Finan had growled at me, ‘he’s not going to fight us in the country. He wants us to die on his walls.’
‘His three walls now,’ I said. We would have to cross the new palisade, then the formidable ramparts of the Low Gate, and there would still be the big wall pierced by the High Gate.
But
