I offered him no explanation for my question. ‘Brother Beadwulf has that scar,’ he told me. ‘He tells me he had an argument with his sister when he was a child and he likes to say she gave him his first tonsure.’
‘She should have slit his throat,’ I said, ‘because I’m going to tear his belly open from his crotch to his breastbone.’
‘God forgive you!’ Æthelstan sounded horrified. ‘They already call you the priest-killer!’
‘Then they can call me monk-killer too,’ I said, ‘because your Brother Beadwulf is my Brother Osric.’
Æthelstan flinched. ‘You can’t be sure,’ he said uncertainly.
I ignored his words. ‘Where did you send Brother Beadwulf or whatever he’s called?’
‘To a man called Arnborg.’
‘Arnborg?’
‘A Norse chieftain who once held land on Monez. He was driven out by the Welsh, and settled on the coast north of here. He leads maybe a hundred men? I doubt he has more than a hundred.’
‘How far north?’
‘He came to the Ribbel with three ships and found land on the southern bank of the river. He swore to keep the peace and pay us tribute.’ Æthelstan looked troubled. ‘The monk is a tall man, yes? Dark hair?’
‘And with a scar that looked as if someone had opened up his head from one ear to the other. I wish they had.’
‘It sounds like Brother Beadwulf,’ Æthelstan admitted unhappily.
‘And I’m going to find him,’ I said.
‘If it is Brother Beadwulf,’ Æthelstan said, recovering his poise, ‘then perhaps he just wanted to help? Wanted the siege lifted?’
‘So he lies to me about his name? Lies about where he’s from?’
Æthelstan frowned. ‘If Brother Beadwulf has transgressed then he must suffer Mercian justice.’
‘Transgressed!’ I mocked the word.
‘He is a Mercian,’ Æthelstan insisted, ‘and while he is on Mercian soil I forbid you to harm him. He may be in error, but he is a man of God, and therefore under my protection.’
‘Then protect him,’ I said savagely, ‘from me.’
Æthelstan bridled at that, but held his temper. ‘You may deliver him to me for judgement,’ he said.
‘I am capable, lord Prince,’ I said, still savage, ‘of dispensing my own justice.’
‘Not,’ he said sharply, ‘inside Mercia! Here you are under my father’s authority.’ He hesitated, then added, ‘and mine.’
‘My authority,’ I snarled, ‘is this!’ I slapped Serpent-Breath’s hilt. ‘And on that authority, lord Prince, I am riding to find Jarl Arnborg.’
‘And Brother Beadwulf?’
‘Of course.’
He stood straighter, confronting me. ‘And if you kill another man of God,’ he said, ‘you become my enemy.’
For a moment I had no idea what to say, and for the same moment I was tempted to tell him to stop being a pompous little earsling. I had known him and protected him since he was a child, he had been like a son to me, but in the last few years the priests had got to him. Yet the boy I had nurtured was still there, I thought, and so I suppressed my anger. ‘You forget,’ I said, ‘that I swore an oath to the Lady Æthelflaed to protect you, and I will keep that oath.’
‘What else did you swear to her?’ he asked.
‘To serve her, and I did.’
‘You did,’ he agreed. ‘You served her well, and she loved you.’ He turned away, staring at the bare low branches of bog myrtle that grew in a damp patch beside a ditch. ‘You remember how the Lady Æthelflaed liked bog myrtle? She believed the leaves kept fleas away.’ He smiled at the memory. ‘And you remember this ditch, lord?’
‘I remember it. You killed Eardwulf here.’
‘I did. I was just a boy. I had bad dreams for weeks afterwards. So much blood! To this day when I smell bog myrtle I think of blood in a ditch. Why did you make me kill him?’
‘Because a king must learn the cost of life and death.’
‘And you want me to be king after my father?’
‘No, lord Prince,’ I said, surprising him. ‘I want Ælfweard to be king because he’s a useless piece of weasel shit, and if he invades Northumbria I’ll gut him. But if you ask me who ought to be king? You, of course.’
‘And you once took an oath to protect me,’ he said quietly.
‘I did, to the Lady Æthelflaed, and I kept that oath.’
‘You did keep it,’ he agreed. He was staring into the ditch where some skims of ice still lingered. ‘I want your oath, Lord Uhtred,’ he said.
So that was why he had summoned me! No wonder he had been nervous. He turned his head to look at me, and I saw the determination in his face. He had grown up. He was no longer a boy or even a youth. He had become as stern and unbending as Alfred, his grandfather. ‘My oath?’ I asked, because I was not sure what else to say.
‘I want the same oath you gave to the Lady Æthelflaed,’ he said calmly.
‘I swore to serve her,’ I said.
‘I know.’
I owed Æthelstan. He had been beside me when we recaptured Bebbanburg, and he had fought well there even though he had had no need to be in that fight. So yes, I owed him, but did he know he was asking the impossible? We live by oaths and we can die by them. To give an oath is to harness a life to a promise, and to break an oath is to tempt the punishment of the gods. ‘I swore loyalty to King Sigtryggr,’ I said, ‘and I cannot break that oath. How can I serve both you and him?’
‘You can swear an oath,’ he said, ‘that you will never oppose me, never thwart me.’
‘And if you invade Northumbria?’
‘Then you will not fight me.’
‘And my oath to my son-in-law?’ I asked. ‘If,’ I paused, ‘when you invade Northumbria my oath to Sigtryggr means I must oppose you. You would want me to break that oath?’
‘It is a pagan oath,’ he said, ‘and therefore meaningless.’
‘Like the oath you took from Ingilmundr?’ I asked, and he had no reply to that. ‘My oath to Sigtryggr rules my life, lord Prince,’ I spoke his title with condescension. ‘I swore to the Lady Æthelflaed that I would protect you, and I will. And if you fight Sigtryggr I will keep that oath by doing my best to capture you in battle and not kill you.’ I shook my head. ‘No, lord Prince,
