‘The gods only know,’ Ragnar said, still watching the standard. ‘This year we should finish off Mercia, then we’ll go to East Anglia, and after that, Wessex. To take all the land and treasure in England, Uhtred? Three years? Four? We need more ships though.’ He meant we needed more ships’ crews, more shield-Danes, more swords.
‘Why not go north?’ I asked him.
‘To Dalriada and Pictland?’ he laughed. ‘There’s nothing up there, Uhtred, except bare rocks, bare fields and bare arses. The land there is no better than at home.’ He nodded out towards the enemy encampment. ‘But this is good land. Rich and deep. You can raise children here. You can grow strong here.’ He fell silent as a group of horsemen appeared from the enemy camp and followed the rider who carried the dragon standard. Even from a long way off it was possible to see that these were great men for they rode splendid horses and had mail coats glinting beneath their dark red cloaks. ‘The King of Wessex?’ Ragnar guessed.
‘Æthelred?’
‘It’s probably him. We shall find out now.’
‘Find out what?’
‘What these West Saxons are made of. The Mercians won’t attack us, so let’s see if Æthelred’s men are any better. Dawn, Uhtred, that’s when they should come. Straight at us, ladders against the wall, lose some men, but let the rest slaughter us.’ He laughed. ‘That’s what I’d do, but that lot?’ He spat in derision.
Ivar and Ubba must have thought the same thing, for they sent two men to spy on the Mercian and West Saxon forces to see if there was any sign that ladders were being made. The two men went out at night and were supposed to skirt the besiegers’ encampment and find a place to watch the enemy from outside their fortifications, but somehow they were both seen and caught. The two men were brought to the fields in front of the wall and made to kneel there with their hands tied behind their backs. A tall Englishman stood behind them with a drawn sword and I watched as he poked one of the Danes in the back, as the Dane lifted his head and then as the sword swung. The second Dane died in the same way, and the two bodies were left for the ravens to eat. ‘Bastards,’ Ragnar said.
Ivar and Ubba had also watched the executions. I rarely saw the brothers. Ubba stayed in his house much of the time while Ivar, so thin and wraithlike, was more evident, pacing the walls every dawn and dusk, scowling at the enemy and saying little, though now he spoke urgently to Ragnar, gesturing south to the green fields beyond the river. He never seemed to speak without a snarl, but Ragnar was not offended. ‘He’s angry,’ he told me afterwards, ‘because he needs to know if they plan to assault us. Now he wants some of my men to spy on their camp, but after that?’ He nodded at the two headless bodies in the field. ‘Maybe I’d better go myself.’
‘They’ll be watching for more spies,’ I said, not wanting Ragnar to end up headless before the walls.
‘A leader leads,’ Ragnar said, ‘and you can’t ask men to risk death if you’re not willing to risk it yourself.’
‘Let me go,’ I said.
He laughed at that. ‘What kind of leader sends a boy to do a man’s job, eh?’
‘I’m English,’ I said, ‘and they won’t suspect an English boy.’
Ragnar smiled at me. ‘If you’re English,’ he said, ‘then how could we trust you to tell us the truth of what you see?’
I clutched Thor’s hammer. ‘I will tell the truth,’ I said, ‘I swear it. And I’m a Dane now! You’ve told me that! You say I’m a Dane!’
Ragnar began to take me seriously. He knelt to look into my face. ‘Are you really a Dane?’ he asked.
‘I’m a Dane,’ I said and, at that moment I meant it. At other times I was sure I was a Northumbrian, a secret sceadugengan hidden among the Danes, and in truth I was confused. I loved Ragnar as a father, was fond of Ravn, wrestled and raced and played with Rorik when he was well enough, and all of them treated me as one of them. I was just from another tribe. There were three main tribes among the Northmen; the Danes, the Norse and the Svear, but Ragnar said there were others, like the Getes, and he was not sure where the Northmen ended and the others began, but suddenly he was worried about me. ‘I’m a Dane,’ I repeated forcibly, ‘and who better than me to spy on them? I speak their language!’
‘You’re a boy,’ Ragnar said, and I thought he was refusing to let me go, but instead he was getting used to the idea. ‘No one will suspect a boy,’ he went on. He still stared at me, then stood and glanced again at the two bodies where ravens were pecking at the severed heads. ‘Are you sure, Uhtred?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘I’ll ask the brothers,’ he said, and he did, and Ivar and Ubba must have agreed for they let me go. It was after dark when the gate was opened and I slipped out. Now, I thought, I am a Shadow-Walker at last, though in truth the journey needed no supernatural skills for there was a slew of campfires in the Mercian and West Saxon lines to light the way. Ragnar had advised me to skirt the big encampment and see if there was an easy way in at the back, but instead I walked straight towards the nearest fires that lay behind the felled trees that served as the English protective wall, and beyond that black tangle I could see the dark shapes of sentries outlined by the campfires. I was nervous. For months I had been treasuring the idea of the sceadugengan, and here I was, out in the dark, and not far away there were headless bodies and my imagination invented a similar fate for myself. Why? One small part of me knew I could walk into the camp and say who I was, then demand to be taken to Burghred or to Æthelred, yet I had spoken the truth to Ragnar. I would go back, and I would tell the truth. I had promised that, and to a boy promises are solemn things, buttressed by the dread of divine revenge. I would choose my own tribe in time, but that time had not yet come, and so I crept across the field feeling very small and vulnerable, my heart thumping against my ribs, and my soul consumed by the importance of what I did.
And halfway to the Mercian camp I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I had the sensation I was being followed and I twisted, listened and stared, and saw nothing but the black shapes that shudder in the night, but like a hare I sprinted to one side, dropped suddenly and listened again, and this time I was sure I heard a footfall in the grass. I waited, watched, saw nothing and crept on until I reached the Mercian barricade and I waited again there, but heard nothing more behind me and decided I had been imagining things. I had also been worrying that I would not be able to pass the Mercian obstacles, but in the end it was simple enough because a big felled tree left plenty of space for a boy to wriggle through its branches, and I did it slowly, making no noise, then ran on into the camp and was almost immediately challenged by a sentry. ‘Who are you?’ the man snarled and I could see the firelight reflecting from a glittering spear head that was being run towards me.
‘Osbert,’ I said, using my old name.
‘A boy?’ The man checked, surprised.
‘Needed a piss.’
‘Hell, boy, what’s wrong with pissing outside your shelter?’
‘My master doesn’t like it.’
‘Who’s your master?’ The spear had been lifted and the man was peering at me in the small light from the fires.
‘Beocca,’ I said. It was the first name that came to my head.
‘The priest?’
