first he must capture Ceaster. And he had failed.
‘It feels like snow,’ Finan said as we rode south towards the city.
‘It’s too late in the year for snow,’ I said confidently.
‘I can feel it in my bones,’ he said, shivering. ‘It’ll come by nightfall.’
I scoffed at that. ‘Two shillings says it won’t.’
He laughed. ‘God send me more fools with silver! My bones are never wrong.’ Finan was Irish, my second-in-command, and my dearest friend. His face, framed by the steel of his helmet, looked lined and old, his beard was grey. Mine was too, I suppose. I watched as he loosened Soul-Stealer in her scabbard and as his eyes flicked across the smoke of the campfires ahead. ‘So what are we doing?’ he asked.
‘Scouring the bastards off the eastern side of the city,’ I said.
‘They’re thick there.’
I guessed that almost two thirds of the enemy were camped on Ceaster’s eastern flank. The campfires were dense there, burning between low shelters made of branches and turf. To the south of the crude shelters were a dozen lavish tents, placed close to the ruins of the old Roman arena, which, even though it had been used as a convenient quarry, still rose higher than the tents above which two flags hung motionless in the still air. ‘If Cynlæf’s still here,’ I said, ‘he’ll be in one of those tents.’
‘Let’s hope the bastard’s drunk.’
‘Or else he’s in the arena,’ I said. The arena was built just outside the city and was a vast hulk of stone. Beneath its banked stone seating were cave-like rooms that, when I had last explored them, were home to wild dogs. ‘If he had any sense,’ I went on, ‘he’d have abandoned this siege. Left men to keep the garrison starving, and gone south. That’s where the rebellion will be won or lost, not here.’
‘Does he have sense?’
‘Daft as a turnip,’ I said, and then started laughing. A group of women burdened with firewood had stepped off the road to kneel as we passed, and they looked up at me in astonishment. I waved at them. ‘We’re about to make some of them widows,’ I said, still laughing.
‘And that’s funny?’
I spurred Tintreg into a trot. ‘What’s funny,’ I said, ‘is that we’re two old men riding to war.’
‘You, maybe,’ Finan said pointedly.
‘You’re my age!’
‘I’m not a grandfather!’
‘You might be. You don’t know.’
‘Bastards don’t count.’
‘They do,’ I insisted.
‘Then you’re probably a great-grandfather by now.’
I gave him a harsh look. ‘Bastards don’t count,’ I snarled, making him laugh, then he made the sign of the cross because we had reached the Roman cemetery that stretched either side of the road. There were ghosts here, ghosts wandering between the lichen-covered stones with their fading inscriptions that only Christian priests who understood Latin could read. Years before, in a fit of zeal, a priest had started throwing down the stones, declaring they were pagan abominations. That very same day he was struck down dead and ever since the Christians had tolerated the graves, which, I thought, must be protected by the Roman gods. Bishop Leofstan had laughed when I told him that story, and had assured me that the Romans were good Christians. ‘It was our god, the one true god, who slew the priest,’ he had told me. Then Leofstan himself had died, struck down just as suddenly as the grave-hating priest. Wyrd bið ful a¯ræd.
My men were strung out now, not quite in single file, but close. None wanted to ride too near the road’s verges because that was where the ghosts gathered. The long, straggling line of horsemen made us vulnerable, but the enemy seemed oblivious to our threat. We passed more women, all bent beneath great burdens of firewood they had cut from spinneys north of the graves. The nearest campfires were close now. The afternoon’s light was fading, though dusk was still an hour or more away. I could see men on the northern city wall, see their spears, and knew they must be watching us. They would think we were reinforcements come to help the besiegers.
I curbed Tintreg just beyond the old Roman cemetery to let my men catch up. The sight of the graves and thinking of Bishop Leofstan had brought back memories. ‘Remember Mus?’ I asked Finan.
‘Christ! How could anyone forget her?’ He grinned. ‘Did you …’ he began.
‘Never. You?’
He shook his head. ‘Your son gave her a few good rides.’
I had left my son in command of the troops garrisoning Bebbanburg. ‘He’s a lucky boy,’ I said. Mus, her real name was Sunngifu, was small like a mouse, and had been married to Bishop Leofstan. ‘I wonder where Mus is now?’ I asked. I was still gazing at Ceaster’s northern wall, trying to estimate how many men stood guard on the ramparts. ‘More than I expected,’ I said.
‘More?’
‘Men on the wall,’ I explained. I could see at least forty men on the ramparts, and knew there must be just as many on the eastern wall, which faced the bulk of the enemy.
‘Maybe they were reinforced?’ Finan suggested.
‘Or the monk was wrong, which wouldn’t surprise me.’
A monk had come to Bebbanburg with news of Ceaster’s siege. We already knew of the Mercian rebellion, of course, and we had welcomed it. It was no secret that Edward, who now styled himself King of the Angles and Saxons, wanted to invade Northumbria and so make that arrogant title come true. Sigtryggr, my son-in-law and King of Northumbria, had been preparing for that invasion, fearing it too, and then came the news that Mercia was tearing itself apart, and that Edward, far from invading us, was fighting to hold onto his new lands. Our response was obvious; do nothing! Let Edward’s realm tear itself into shreds, because every Saxon warrior who died in Mercia was one less man to bring a sword into Northumbria.
Yet here I was, on a late winter’s afternoon beneath a darkening sky, coming to fight in Mercia. Sigtryggr had not been happy, and his wife, my daughter, even unhappier. ‘Why?’ she had demanded.
‘I took an oath,’ I had told them both, and that had stilled their protests.
Oaths are sacred. To break an oath is to invite the anger of the gods, and Sigtryggr had reluctantly agreed to let me relieve the siege of Ceaster. Not that he could have done much to stop me; I was his most powerful lord, his father-in-law, and the Lord of Bebbanburg, indeed he owed me his kingdom, but he insisted I take fewer than a hundred warriors. ‘Take more,’ he had said, ‘and the damned Scots will come over the frontier.’ I had agreed. I led just ninety men, and with those ninety I intended to save King Edward’s new kingdom.
‘You think Edward will be grateful?’ my daughter had asked, trying to find some good news in my perverse decision. She was thinking that Edward’s gratitude might persuade him to abandon his plans to invade Northumbria.
‘Edward will think I’m a fool.’
‘You
