whore in that robe.’
‘That bad?’
‘That’s good, lad! They have great whores in Frankia; plump, pretty and cheap. Come on.’ He led me from the river. The city was busy, the shops full, the streets crowded with packmules. A herd of small, dark-fleeced sheep was being driven to slaughter, and they were the only obstruction that did not part to make way for Ragnar whose reputation ensured respect, but that reputation was not grim for I saw how the Danes grinned when he greeted them. He might be called Jarl Ragnar, Earl Ragnar, but he was hugely popular, a jester and fighter who blew through fear as though it were a cobweb. He took me to the palace, which was only a large house, part-built by the Romans in stone and part-made more recently in wood and thatch. It was in the Roman part, in a vast room with stone pillars and limewashed walls, that my uncle waited and with him was Father Beocca and a dozen warriors, all of whom I knew, and all of whom had stayed to defend Bebbanburg while my father rode to war.
Beocca’s crossed eyes widened when he saw me. I must have looked very different for I was long-haired, sun-darkened, skinny, taller and wilder. Then there was the hammer amulet about my neck, which he saw for he pointed to his own crucifix, then at my hammer and looked very disapproving. Ælfric and his men scowled at me as though I had let them down, but no one spoke, partly because Ivar’s own guards, all of them tall men, and all of them in mail and helmets and armed with long-shafted war axes, stood across the head of the room where a simple chair, which now counted as Northumbria’s throne, stood on a wooden platform.
King Egbert arrived, and with him was Ivar the Boneless and a dozen men, including Ravn who, I had learned, was a counsellor to Ivar and his brother. With Ravn was a tall man, white-haired and with a long white beard. He was wearing long robes embroidered with crosses and winged angels and I later discovered this was Wulfhere, the Archbishop of Eoferwic who, like Egbert, had given his allegiance to the Danes. The king sat, looking uncomfortable, and then the discussion began.
They were not there just to discuss me. They talked about which Northumbrian lords were to be trusted, which were to be attacked, what lands were to be granted to Ivar and Ubba, what tribute the Northumbrians must pay, how many horses were to be brought to Eoferwic, how much food was to be given to the army, which ealdormen were to yield hostages, and I sat, bored, until my name was mentioned. I perked up then and heard my uncle propose that I should be ransomed. That was the gist of it, but nothing is ever simple when a score of men decide to argue. For a long time they wrangled over my price, the Danes demanding an impossible payment of three hundred pieces of silver, and Ælfric not wanting to budge from a grudging offer of fifty. I said nothing, but just sat on the broken Roman tiles at the edge of the hall and listened. Three hundred became two seventy-five, fifty became sixty, and so it went on, the numbers edging closer, but still wide apart, and then Ravn, who had been silent, spoke for the first time. ‘The Earl Uhtred,’ he said in Danish, and that was the first time I heard myself described as an Earl, which was a Danish rank, ‘has given his allegiance to King Egbert. In that he has an advantage over you, Ælfric.’
The words were translated and I saw Ælfric’s anger when he was given no title. But nor did he have a title, except the one he had granted to himself, and I learned about that when he spoke softly to Beocca who then spoke up for him. ‘The Ealdorman Ælfric,’ the young priest said, ‘does not believe that a child’s oath is of any significance.’
Had I made an oath? I could not remember doing so, though I had asked for Egbert’s protection, and I was young enough to confuse the two things. Still, it did not much matter, what mattered was that my uncle had usurped Bebbanburg. He was calling himself Ealdorman. I stared at him, shocked, and he looked back at me with pure loathing in his face.
‘It is our belief,’ Ravn said, his blind eyes looking at the roof of the hall that was missing some tiles so that a light rain was spitting through the rafters, ‘that we would be better served by having our own sworn Earl in Bebbanburg, loyal to us, than endure a man whose loyalty we do not know.’
Ælfric could feel the wind changing and he did the obvious thing. He walked to the dais, knelt to Egbert and kissed the king’s outstretched hand and, as a reward, received a blessing from the Archbishop. ‘I will offer a hundred pieces of silver,’ Ælfric said, his allegiance given.
‘Two hundred,’ Ravn said, ‘and a force of thirty Danes to garrison Bebbanburg.’
‘With my allegiance given,’ Ælfric said angrily, ‘you will have no need of Danes in Bebbanburg.’
So Bebbanburg had not fallen and I doubted it could fall. There was no stronger fortress in all Northumbria, and perhaps in all England.
Egbert had not spoken at all, nor did he, but nor had Ivar and it was plain that the tall, thin, ghost-faced Dane was bored with the whole proceedings for he jerked his head at Ragnar who left my side and went to talk privately with his lord. The rest of us waited awkwardly. Ivar and Ragnar were friends, an unlikely friendship for they were very different men, Ivar all savage silence and grim threat, and Ragnar open and loud, yet Ragnar’s eldest son served Ivar and was even now, at eighteen years old, entrusted with the leadership of some of the Danes left in Ireland who were holding onto Ivar’s lands in that island. It was not unusual for eldest sons to serve another lord, Ragnar had two Earls’ sons in his ships’ crews and both might one day expect to inherit wealth and position if they learned how to fight. So Ragnar and Ivar now talked and Ælfric shuffled his feet and kept looking at me, Beocca prayed and King Egbert, having nothing else to do, just tried to look regal.
Ivar finally spoke. ‘The boy is not for sale,’ he announced.
‘Ransom,’ Ravn corrected him gently.
Ælfric looked furious. ‘I came here …’ he began, but Ivar interrupted him.
‘The boy is not for ransom,’ he snarled, then turned and walked from the big chamber. Egbert looked awkward, half rose from his throne, sat again, and Ragnar came and stood beside me.
‘You’re mine,’ he said softly, ‘I just bought you.’
‘Bought me?’
‘My sword’s weight in silver,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘Perhaps I want to sacrifice you to Odin?’ he suggested, then tousled my hair. ‘We like you, boy,’ he said, ‘we like you enough to keep you. And besides, your uncle didn’t offer enough silver. For five hundred pieces? I’d have sold you for that.’ He laughed.
Beocca hurried across the room. ‘Are you well?’ he asked me.
‘I’m well,’ I said.
‘That thing you’re wearing,’ he said, meaning Thor’s hammer, and he reached as though to pull it from its thong.
‘Touch the boy, priest,’ Ragnar said harshly, ‘and I’ll straighten your crooked eyes before opening you from your gutless belly to your skinny throat.’
Beocca, of course, could not understand what the Dane had said, but he could not mistake the tone and his hand stopped an inch from the hammer. He looked nervous. He lowered his voice so only I could hear him. ‘Your uncle will kill you,’ he whispered.
‘Kill me?’
‘He wants to be Ealdorman. That’s why he wished to ransom you. So he could kill you.’
‘But,’ I began to protest.
‘Shh,’
