a stool on which were piled six books and a sheaf of parchments, and a low altar on which was an ivory crucifix and two jewelled reliquaries. The remains of a meal were on the window ledge. He moved the plates, bent to kiss the altar, then sat on the ledge and began sharpening some quills for writing. ‘It is kind of you to come,’ he said mildly. ‘I was going to talk with you after supper tonight, but I saw you in the garden, so thought we could talk now.’ He smiled and I, lout that I was, scowled. Brida squatted by the door with Nihtgenga close to her.
‘Ealdorman Æthelred tells me you are a considerable warrior, Uhtred,’ Alfred said.
‘I’ve been lucky, lord.’
‘Luck is good, or so my own warriors tell me. I have not yet worked out a theology of luck, and perhaps I never will. Can there be luck if God disposes?’ He frowned at me for a few heartbeats, evidently thinking about the apparent contradiction, but then dismissed the problem as an amusement for another day. ‘So I suppose I was wrong to try and encourage you to the priesthood?’
‘There’s nothing wrong with encouragement, lord,’ I said, ‘but I had no wish to be a priest.’
‘So you ran away from me. Why?’
I think he expected me to be embarrassed and to evade his question, but I told him the truth. ‘I went back to fetch my sword,’ I told him. I wished I had Serpent-Breath at that moment, because I hated being without her, but the palace doorkeeper had insisted I give up all my weapons, even the small knife I used for eating.
He nodded seriously, as if that were a good reason. ‘It’s a special sword?’
‘The best in the world, lord.’
He smiled at that, recognising a boy’s misplaced enthusiasm. ‘So you went back to Earl Ragnar?’
I nodded this time, but said nothing.
‘Who did not hold you prisoner, Uhtred,’ he said sternly, ‘indeed he never did, did he? He treated you like a son.’
‘I loved him,’ I blurted out.
He stared at me and I became uncomfortable under his gaze. He had very light eyes that gave you the sense of being judged. ‘Yet in Eoferwic,’ Alfred went on mildly, ‘they are saying you killed him.’
Now it was my time to stare at him. I was angry, confused, astonished and surprised, so confused that I did not know what to say. But why was I so surprised? What else would Kjartan claim? Except, I thought, Kjartan must have thought me dead, or I hoped he thought me dead.
‘They lie,’ Brida said flatly.
‘Do they?’ Alfred asked me, still in a mild voice.
‘They lie,’ I said angrily.
‘I never doubted it,’ he said. He put down his quills and knife and leaned over to the heap of stiff parchments that rested on his pile of books and sifted through them until he found the one he was looking for. He read for a few moments. ‘Kjartan? Is that how it is pronounced?’
‘Kjartan,’ I corrected him, making the ‘j’ sound like a ‘y’.
‘Earl Kjartan now,’ Alfred said, ‘and reckoned to be a great lord. Owner of four ships.’
‘That’s all written down?’ I asked.
‘Whatever I discover of my enemies is written down,’ Alfred said, ‘which is why you are here. To tell me more. Did you know Ivar the Boneless is dead?’
My hand instinctively went to Thor’s hammer, which I wore under my jerkin. ‘No. Dead?’ It astonished me. Such was my awe of Ivar that I suppose I had thought he would live for ever, but Alfred spoke the truth. Ivar the Boneless was dead.
‘He was killed fighting against the Irish,’ Alfred said, ‘and Ragnar’s son has returned to Northumbria with his men. Will he fight Kjartan?’
‘If he knows Kjartan killed his father,’ I said, ‘he’ll disembowel him.’
‘Earl Kjartan has sworn an oath of innocence in the matter,’ Alfred said.
‘Then he lies.’
‘He’s a Dane,’ Alfred said, ‘and the truth is not in them.’ He gave me a sharp look, doubtless for the many lies I had fed him over the years. He stood then and paced the small room. He had said that I was there to tell him about the Danes, but in the next few moments he was the one who did the telling. King Burghred of Mercia, he said, was tired of his Danish overlords and had decided to flee to Rome.
‘Rome?’
‘I was taken there twice as a child,’ he said, ‘and I remember the city as a very untidy place,’ that was said very sternly, ‘but a man feels close to God there, so it is a good place to pray. Burghred is a weak man, but he did his small best to alleviate Danish rule, and once he is gone then we can expect the Danes to fill his land. They will be on our frontier. They will be in Cirrenceastre.’ He looked at me. ‘Kjartan knows you’re alive.’
‘He does?’
‘Of course he does. The Danes have spies, just as we do.’ And Alfred’s spies, I realised, had to be efficient for he knew so much. ‘Does Kjartan care about your life?’ he went on. ‘If you tell the truth about Ragnar’s death, Uhtred, then he does care because you can contradict his lies and if Ragnar learns that truth from you then Kjartan will certainly fear for his life. It is in Kjartan’s interest, therefore, to kill you. I tell you this only so that you may consider whether you wish to return to Cirrenceastre where the Danes have,’ he paused, ‘influence. You will be safer in Wessex, but how long will Wessex last?’ He evidently did not expect an answer, but kept pacing. ‘Ubba has sent men to Mercia, which suggests he will follow. Have you met Ubba?’
‘Many times.’
‘Tell me of him.’
I told him what I knew, told him that Ubba was a great warrior, though very superstitious and that intrigued Alfred who wanted to know all about Storri the sorcerer and about the runesticks, and I told him how Ubba never picked battles for the joy of fighting, but only when the runes said he could win, but that once he fought he did so with a terrible savagery. Alfred wrote it all down, then asked if I had met Halfdan, the youngest brother, and I said I had, but very briefly.
‘Halfdan speaks of avenging Ivar,’ Alfred said, ‘so it’s possible he will not come back to Wessex. Not soon, anyway. But even with Halfdan in Ireland there will be plenty of pagans left to attack us.’ He explained how he had anticipated an attack this year, but the Danes had been disorganised and he did not expect that to last. ‘They will come next year,’ he said, ‘and we think Ubba will lead them.’
‘Or Guthrum,’ I said.
‘I had not forgotten him. He is in East Anglia now.’ He glanced reproachfully at Brida, remembering her tales of Edmund. Brida, quite unworried, just watched him with half-closed eyes. He looked back to me. ‘What do you know of Guthrum?’
Again I talked and again he wrote. He was intrigued about the bone in Guthrum’s hair, and shuddered when I repeated Guthrum’s insistence that every Englishman be killed. ‘A harder job than he thinks,’ Alfred said drily. He laid the pen
