Æthelstan said scornfully. ‘If the pagans of Northumbria raid Mercia,’ he went on, ‘then we should punish them. Englaland will be a country ruled by law. By Christian law.’
‘Does Ingilmundr accept your law?’ I asked dubiously.
‘He does,’ Æthelstan said. ‘He has submitted himself and his folk to my justice.’ He ducked beneath the splintered branch of an alder. We were riding through a narrow belt of woodland that had been pillaged by the besiegers for firewood and the trees bore the scars of their axes. Beyond the wood I could see the reed beds that edged the flat grey Mærse. ‘He has also welcomed our missionaries,’ Æthelstan added.
‘Of course he has,’ I responded.
Æthelstan laughed, his good humour restored. ‘We don’t fight the Norsemen because they’re newcomers,’ he said. ‘We were newcomers ourselves once! We don’t even fight them because they’re pagans.’
‘We were all pagans once.’
‘We were indeed. No, we fight to bring them into our law. One country, one king, one law! If they break the law, we must impose it, but if they keep it? Then we must live with them in peace.’
‘Even if they’re pagans?’
‘By obeying the law they will see the truth of Christ’s commandments.’
I wondered if this was why Æthelstan had demanded my company; to preach the virtues of Christian justice to me? Or was it to meet Ingilmundr, with whom he was so plainly impressed? For a time, as we rode along the Mærse’s southern bank, he talked of his plans to strengthen Mameceaster, and then, impatient, he spurred his horse into a canter, leaving me behind. Mudflats and reed beds stretched to my right, the water beyond almost still, just occasionally ruffled by a breath of wind. As we drew closer to the burh I saw that Æthelstan’s flag still flew there, and two low lean ships were safely tied at the wharf. It seemed Cynlæf’s men had made no attempt to capture Brunanburh, which, as it turned out, had been garrisoned by a mere thirty men who opened the gates to welcome us.
As I rode through the gate I saw that Æthelstan had dismounted and was striding towards a tall young man who went to his knees as Æthelstan came close. Æthelstan raised him up, clasped the man’s right arm with both hands, and turned to me. ‘You must meet Ingilmundr,’ he exclaimed happily.
So this, I thought, was the Norse chieftain who had been allowed to settle so close to Ceaster. He was young, startlingly young, and strikingly handsome, with a straight blade of a nose and long hair that he wore tied in a leather lace so that it hung almost to his waist. ‘I asked Ingilmundr to meet us here,’ Æthelstan told me, ‘so we could thank him.’
‘Thank him for what?’ I asked once I had dismounted.
‘For not joining the rebellion, of course!’ Æthelstan said.
Ingilmundr waited as one of Æthelstan’s men translated the words, then took a simple wooden box from one of his companions. ‘It is a gift,’ he said, ‘to celebrate your victory. It is not much, lord Prince, but it is much of all that we possess.’ He knelt again and laid the box at Æthelstan’s feet. ‘We are glad, lord Prince,’ he went on, ‘that your enemies are defeated.’
‘Without your help,’ I could not resist saying as Æthelstan listened to the translation.
‘The strong do not need the help of the weak,’ Ingilmundr retorted. He looked up at me as he spoke, and I was struck by the intensity of his blue eyes. He was smiling, he was humble, but his eyes were guarded. He had come with just four companions, and, like them, he wore plain breeches, a woollen shirt, and a coat of sheepskin. No armour, no weapons. His only decorations were two amulets hanging at his neck. One, carved from bone, was Thor’s hammer, while the other was a silver cross studded with jet. I had never seen any man display both tokens at once.
Æthelstan raised the Norseman again. ‘You must forgive the Lord Uhtred,’ he said. ‘He sees enemies everywhere.’
‘You are Lord Uhtred!’ Ingilmundr said, and there was a flattering surprise and even awe in his voice. He bowed to me. ‘I am honoured, lord.’
Æthelstan gestured, and a servant came forward and opened the wooden box, which, I saw, was filled with hacksilver. The glittering scraps had been cut from torques and brooches, buckles and rings, most of them axe-hacked into shards that were used instead of coins. A merchant would weigh hacksilver to find its value, and Ingilmundr’s gift, I thought grudgingly, was not paltry. ‘You are generous,’ Æthelstan said.
‘We are poor, lord Prince,’ Ingilmundr said, ‘but our gratitude demands we offer you a gift, however small.’
And in his steadings, I thought, he was doubtless hoarding gold and silver. Why did Æthelstan not see that? Perhaps he did, but his pious hopes of converting the pagans exceeded his suspicions. ‘In an hour,’ he said to Ingilmundr, ‘we will have a service of thanksgiving in the hall. I hope you can attend and I hope you will listen to the words Father Swithred will preach. In those words are eternal life!’
‘We shall listen closely, lord Prince,’ Ingilmundr said earnestly, and I wanted to laugh aloud. He was saying everything Æthelstan wanted to hear, and though it was plain Æthelstan liked the young Norseman, it was equally plain he did not see the slyness behind Ingilmundr’s handsome face. He saw meekness, which the Christians ridiculously count as a virtue.
The meek Ingilmundr sought me out after Swithred’s interminable sermon, which I had not attended. I was on Brunanburh’s wharf, idly gazing into the belly of a ship and dreaming of being at sea with the wind in my sail and a sword at my side when I heard footsteps on the wooden planks and turned to see the Norseman. He was alone. He stood beside me and for a moment said nothing. He was as tall as I was. We both gazed into the moored ship and, after a long moment, Ingilmundr broke our silence. ‘Saxon ships are too heavy.’
‘Too heavy and too slow.’
‘My father had a Frisian ship once,’ he said, ‘and it was a beauty.’
‘You should persuade your friend Æthelstan to give you ships,’ I said, ‘then you can sail home.’
He smiled, despite my harsh tone. ‘I have ships, lord, but where is home? I thought Ireland was my home.’
‘Then go back there.’
He gave me a long look, as if weighing the depth of my hostility. ‘You think I don’t want to go back?’ he asked. ‘I would, lord, tomorrow, but Ireland is cursed. They’re not men, they’re fiends.’
‘They killed your father?’
He nodded. ‘They broke his shield wall.’
‘But you brought men away from the battle?’
‘One hundred and sixty-three men and their families. Nine ships.’ He sounded proud of that, and so he should have been. Retreating from a defeat is one of the hardest things to do in war, yet Ingilmundr, if he spoke truth, had fought his way back to the Irish shore. I could imagine the horror of that day; a broken shield wall, the shrieks of maddened warriors slaughtering their enemies, and the horsemen with their sharp spears racing in pursuit.
‘You did well,’ I said, and looked down at his two amulets. ‘Which god did you pray to?’
He
