appointing a fleet commander did not need mystical wisdom, it needed finding a raw fighter willing to kill some Danes. ‘Tell me,’ he went on, ‘has learning to read bolstered your faith?’
‘Yes, lord,’ I said with feigned eagerness.
‘It has?’ He sounded dubious.
‘The life of Saint Swithun,’ I said, waving a hand as if to suggest it had overwhelmed me, ‘and the stories of Chad!’ I fell silent as if I could not think of praise sufficient for that tedious man.
‘The blessed Chad!’ Alfred said happily. ‘You know men and cattle were cured by the dust of his corpse?’
‘A miracle, lord,’ I said.
‘It is good to hear you say as much, Uhtred,’ Alfred said, ‘and I rejoice in your faith.’
‘It gives me great happiness, lord,’ I replied with a straight face.
‘Because it is only with faith in God that we shall prevail against the Danes.’
‘Indeed, lord,’ I said with as much enthusiasm as I could muster, wondering why he did not just name me commander of the fleet and be done with it.
But he was in a discursive mood. ‘I remember when I first met you,’ he said, ‘and I was struck by your childlike faith. It was an inspiration to me, Uhtred.’
‘I am glad of it, lord.’
‘And then,’ he turned and frowned at me, ‘I detected a lessening of faith in you.’
‘God tries us, lord,’ I said.
‘He does! He does!’ He winced suddenly. He was always a sick man. He had collapsed in pain at his wedding, though that might have been the horror of realising what he was marrying, but in truth he was prone to bouts of sudden griping agony. That, he had told me, was better than his first illness, which had been an affliction of ficus, which is a real endwerc, so painful and bloody that at times he had been unable to sit, and sometimes that ficus came back, but most of the time he suffered from the pains in his belly. ‘God does try us,’ he went on, ‘and I think God was testing you. I would like to think you have survived the trial.’
‘I believe I have, lord,’ I said gravely, wishing he would just end this ridiculous conversation.
‘But I still hesitate to name you,’ he admitted. ‘You are young! It is true you have proved your diligence by learning to read and that you are nobly born, but you are more likely to be found in a tavern than in a church. Is that not true?’
That silenced me, at least for a heartbeat or two, but then I remembered something Beocca had said to me during his interminable lessons and, without thinking, without even really knowing what they meant, I said the words aloud. ‘“The son of man is come eating and drinking”,’ I said, ‘“and …”’
‘“You say, look, a greedy man and a drinker!”’ Alfred finished the words for me. ‘You are right, Uhtred, right to chide me. Glory to God! Christ was accused of spending his time in taverns, and I forgot it. It is in the scriptures!’
The gods help me, I thought. The man was drunk on God, but he was no fool, for now he turned on me like a snake. ‘And I hear you spend time with my nephew. They say you distract him from his lessons.’
I put my hand on my heart. ‘I will swear an oath, lord,’ I said, ‘that I have done nothing except dissuade him from rashness.’ And that was true, or true enough. I had never encouraged Æthelwold in his wilder flights of fancy that involved cutting Alfred’s throat or running away to join the Danes. I did encourage him to ale, whores and blasphemy, but I did not count those things as rash. ‘My oath on it, lord,’ I said.
The word oath was powerful. All our laws depend on oaths. Life, loyalty and allegiance depend on oaths, and my use of the word persuaded him. ‘I thank you,’ he said earnestly, ‘and I should tell you, Uhtred, that to my surprise the Bishop of Exanceaster had a dream in which a messenger of God appeared to him and said that you should be made commander of the fleet.’
‘A messenger of God?’ I asked.
‘An angel, Uhtred.’
‘Praise God,’ I said gravely, thinking how Eanflæd would enjoy discovering that she was now an angel.
‘Yet,’ Alfred said, and winced again as pain flared in his arse or belly, ‘yet,’ he said again, and I knew something unexpected was coming. ‘I worry,’ he went on, ‘that you are of Northumbria, and that your commitment to Wessex is not of the heart.’
‘I am here, lord,’ I said.
‘But for how long?’
‘Till the Danes are gone, lord.’
He ignored that. ‘I need men bound to me by God,’ he said, ‘by God, by love, by duty, by passion and by land.’ He paused, looking at me, and I knew the sting was in that last word.
‘I have land in Northumbria,’ I said, thinking of Bebbanburg.
‘West Saxon land,’ he said, ‘land that you will own, land that you will defend, land that you will fight for.’
‘A blessed thought,’ I said, my heart sinking at what I suspected was coming.
Only it did not come immediately, instead he abruptly changed the subject and talked, very sensibly, about the Danish threat. The fleet, he said, had succeeded in reducing the Viking raids, but he expected the new year to bring a Danish fleet, and one much too large for our twelve ships to oppose. ‘I dare not lose the fleet,’ he said, ‘so I doubt we should fight their ships. I’m expecting a land army of pagans to come down the Temes and for their fleet to assault our south coast. I can hold one, but not the other, so the fleet commander’s job will be to follow their ships and harry them. Distract them. Keep them looking one way while I destroy their land army.’
I said I thought that was a good idea, which it probably was, though I wondered how twelve ships were supposed to distract a whole fleet, but that was a problem which would have to wait until the enemy fleet arrived. Alfred then returned to the matter of the land and that, of course, was the deciding factor which would give me or deny me the fleet. ‘I would tie you to me, Uhtred,’ he said earnestly.
‘I shall give you an oath, lord,’ I said.
‘You will indeed,’ he responded tartly, ‘but I still want you to be of Wessex.’
‘A high honour, lord,’ I said. What else could I say?
‘You must belong to Wessex,’ he said, then smiled as though he did me a favour. ‘There is an orphan in Defnascir,’ he went on, and here it came, ‘a girl, who I would see married.’
I said nothing. What is the point of protesting when the executioner’s sword is in mid swing?
‘Her name is Mildrith,’ he went on, ‘and she is dear to me. A pious girl, modest and faithful. Her father was reeve to Ealdorman Odda, and she will bring land to her husband, good land, and I would have a good man hold that good land.’
I offered a smile that I hoped was not too sickly. ‘He would be a fortunate
