the grey wolf’s head. That was the badge of Bebbanburg and I had never abandoned it. Waldhere held up a gloved hand to halt the men who followed him and spurred his horse a few paces closer to me. ‘You’ve come to surrender?’ he demanded.
‘I forget your name,’ I said.
‘Most people spew shit from their arse,’ he retorted, ‘you manage it with your mouth.’
‘Your mother gave birth through her arse,’ I said, ‘and you still reek of her shit.’
The insults were routine. One cannot meet an enemy without reviling him. We insult each other, then we fight, though I doubted we would need to draw swords today. Still, we had to pretend. ‘Two minutes,’ Waldhere threatened, ‘then we attack you.’
‘But I come in peace,’ I indicated the branch.
‘I will count to two hundred,’ Waldhere said.
‘But you only have ten fingers,’ my son put in, making my men laugh.
‘Two hundred,’ Waldhere snarled, ‘and then I’ll ram your branch of truce up your arsehole.’
‘And who are you,’ I directed that question to a man who had walked up the slope to join Waldhere. I assumed he was the leader of the newcomers. He was a tall, pale man with a shock of yellow hair that swept back from a high forehead and fell down his back. He was dressed richly with a golden collar about his neck and golden arm rings. The buckle of his belt was gold, and the crosspiece of his sword’s hilt shone with more gold. I guessed he was about thirty years old. He was broad-shouldered, with a long face, very pale eyes, and ink-marks of dragon heads on his cheeks. ‘Tell me your name,’ I demanded.
‘Don’t answer!’ Waldhere snarled. He spoke English, even though my question had been in Danish.
‘Berg,’ I said, still looking at the newcomer, ‘if that shit-mouthed bastard interrupts me one more time I will assume he has broken the truce and you may kill him.’
‘Yes, lord.’
Waldhere scowled, but did not speak. He was outnumbered, but every moment we lingered on the pasture brought more of the newcomers, and they came with shields and weapons. It would not be long before they outnumbered us.
‘So who are you?’ I asked again.
‘I am named Einar Egilson,’ he answered proudly, ‘men call me Einar the White.’
‘You are Norse?’
‘I am.’
‘And I am Uhtred of Bebbanburg,’ I told him, ‘and men call me by many names. The one I am most proud of is Uhtredærwe. It means Uhtred the Wicked.’
‘I have heard men tell of you,’ he said.
‘You have heard of me,’ I said, ‘but I have not heard of you! Is that why you have come? Do you suppose your name will become famous if you kill me?’
‘It will,’ he said.
‘And if I kill you, Einar Egilson, will it add to my renown?’ I shook my head as an answer to my own question. ‘Who will mourn you? Who will remember you?’ I spat towards Waldhere. ‘These men have paid you gold to kill me. You know why?’
‘Tell me,’ Einar said.
‘Because since I was a little child they have tried to kill me and they have failed. Always failed. Do you know why they failed?’
‘Tell me,’ he said again.
‘Because they are cursed,’ I said. ‘Because they worship the nailed god of the Christians and he will not protect them. They despise our gods.’ I could see a hammer carved from white bone at Einar’s throat. ‘But years ago, Einar Egilson, I put the curse of Odin on them, I called Thor’s anger on them. And you would take their soiled gold?’
‘Gold is gold,’ Einar said.
‘And I threw the same curse at your ship,’ I said.
He nodded, touched the white hammer, but said nothing.
‘I will either kill you,’ I told Einar, ‘or you will come to join us. I will not offer you gold to join me, I will offer you something better. Your life. Fight for that man,’ I spat towards Waldhere, ‘and you will die. Fight for me and you will live.’
Einar said nothing, but just stared at me solemnly. I was not certain that Waldhere understood the conversation, but he hardly needed to understand it. He knew our words were hostile to his master. ‘Enough!’ he snarled.
‘All of Northumbria hates these men,’ I ignored Waldhere and still spoke to Einar, ‘and you would die with them? And if you choose to die with them we shall take the gold that is gold that will not be your gold. It will be my gold.’ I looked at Waldhere. ‘Have you finished counting?’
He did not answer. He had hoped more men would join him, enough men to overwhelm us, but our numbers were about equal, and he had no wish to start a fight he was not sure of winning. ‘Say your prayers,’ I told him,’ because your death is near.’ I bit my finger and flicked it at him. He made the sign of the cross, while Einar just looked worried. ‘If you have the courage,’ I told Waldhere, ‘I’ll wait for you tomorrow at Ætgefrin.’ I flicked the finger again, the sign of a curse being cast, and then we rode westwards.
When a man cannot fight he should curse. The gods like to feel needed.
We rode westwards in the dusk. The sky was dark with cloud and the ground sodden from days of rain. We did not hurry. Waldhere would not follow us, and I doubted my cousin would accept the offer of battle at Ætgefrin. He would fight, I thought, now that he had Einar’s hardened warriors to add to his own, but he would fight on ground of his choosing, not of mine.
We followed a valley that climbed slowly to the higher hills. This was sheep country, rich country, but the pastures were empty. The few steadings that we passed were dark with no smoke coming from their roof-holes. We had ravaged this land. I had brought a small army north, and for a month we had savaged my cousin’s tenants. We had driven off their flocks, stolen their cattle, burned their storehouses, and torched the fishing craft in the small harbours north and south of the fortress. We had killed no folk except those who wore my cousin’s badge and the few who had offered resistance, and we had taken no slaves. We had been merciful because these people would one day be my people, so instead we had sent them to seek food from Bebbanburg where my cousin would have to feed them even as we took away the food that his land provided.
‘Einar the White?’ my son asked.
‘Never heard of him,’ I said dismissively.
‘I have heard of Einar,’ Berg put in. ‘He is a Norseman who followed Grimdahl when he rowed into the rivers of the white land.’ The white land was the vast expanse that lay somewhere beyond the home of the Danes and the Norse, a land of long winters, of white trees, white plains, and dark skies. Giants were said to live there, and folk who had fur instead of clothes, and claws that could rip a man open from the bellybutton to the spine.
‘The white land,’ my son said, ‘is that why he’s called the White?’
‘It
