letters. Sigtryggr, curious about how the Saxons ruled in southern Britain, had once asked me whether he should do the same, but I had told him to teach boys how to wield a sword, hold a shield, guide a plough, ride a horse, and butcher a carcass. ‘And you don’t need schools for that,’ I had told him.
‘And he sent me, lord,’ Father Eadig went on, ‘because he knew you would have questions.’
‘Which you can answer?’
‘As best I can, lord.’
Sigtryggr’s message on the parchment merely said that West Saxon forces had invaded southern Northumbria and that he needed my forces in Eoferwic as soon as I could reach that city. The message had been signed with a scrawl that might have belonged to my son-in-law, but also bore his seal of the axe. The Christians claim that the one great advantage of reading and writing is that we can be sure a message is real, but they fake documents all the time. There is a monastery in Wiltunscir that has the skill to produce charters that look as if they are two or three hundred years old. They scrape old parchments, but leave just enough of the original writing visible so that the new words, written over the old in weak ink, are hard to read, and they carve copies of seals, and the faked charters all claim that some ancient king granted the church valuable lands or the income from customs’ dues. Then the abbots and bishops who paid the monks for the forged documents take them to the royal court to have some family thrown out of its homestead so that the Christians can get richer. So I suppose reading and writing really are useful skills.
‘West Saxon forces,’ I asked Father Eadig, ‘not Mercians?’
‘West Saxons, lord. They have an army at Hornecastre, lord.’
‘Hornecastre? Where’s that?’
‘East of Lindcolne, lord, on the River Beina.’
‘And that’s Sigtryggr’s land?’
‘Oh yes, lord. The frontier’s not far away, but the land is Northumbrian.’
I had not heard of Hornecastre, which suggested it was not an important town. The important towns were those built on the Roman roads, or those which had been fortified into burhs, but Hornecastre? The only explanation I could think of was that the town made a convenient place to assemble forces for an attack on Lindcolne. I said as much to Father Eadig, who nodded eager agreement. ‘Yes, lord. And if the king isn’t in Eoferwic then he requests that you join him in Lindcolne.’
That made sense. If the West Saxons wanted to capture Eoferwic, Sigtryggr’s capital city, then they would advance north up the Roman road and would need to storm the high walls of Lindcolne before they could approach Eoferwic. But what did not make sense was why there was war at all.
It made no sense because there was a treaty of peace between the Saxons and the Danes. Sigtryggr, my son-in-law and King of Eoferwic and of Northumbria, had made the treaty with Æthelflaed of Mercia, and he had surrendered land and burhs as the price for that peace. Some men despised him for that, but Northumbria was a weak kingdom, and the Saxon realms of Mercia and Wessex were strong. Sigtryggr needed time, men, and money if he was to withstand the Saxon onslaught he knew was coming.
It was coming because King Alfred’s dream was turning into reality. I am old enough to remember a time when the Danes ruled almost all of what is now England. They captured Northumbria, took East Anglia, and occupied all of Mercia. Guthrum the Dane had then invaded Wessex, driving Alfred and a handful of men into the marshes of Sumorsæte, but Alfred had won the unlikely victory at Ethandun, and ever since the Saxons had inexorably worked their way northwards. The old kingdom of Mercia was in Saxon hands now, and Edward of Wessex, Alfred’s son and the brother of Æthelflaed of Mercia, had reconquered East Anglia. Alfred’s dream, his passion, had been to unite all the lands where the Saxon tongue was spoken, and of those lands only Northumbria was left. There might be a peace treaty between Northumbria and Mercia, but we all knew the Saxon onslaught would come.
Rorik, the Norse boy whose father I had killed, had been listening as I talked to Father Eadig. ‘Lord,’ he asked nervously, ‘whose side are we on?’
I laughed. I was born a Saxon, but raised by Danes, my daughter had married a Norseman, my dearest friend was Irish, my woman was a Saxon, the mother of my children had been Danish, my gods were pagan, and my oath was sworn to Æthelflaed, a Christian. Whose side was I on?
‘All you need to know, boy,’ Finan growled, ‘is that Lord Uhtred’s side is the one that wins.’
The rain was slashing down now, turning the drove path we followed into thick mud. The rain fell so hard I had to raise my voice to Eadig. ‘You say the Mercians haven’t invaded?’
‘Not as far as we know, lord.’
‘Just West Saxons?’
‘Seems so, lord.’
And that was strange. Before Sigtryggr captured the throne in Eoferwic I had tried to persuade Æthelflaed to attack Northumbria. She had refused, saying she would not start a war unless her brother’s troops were fighting alongside her men. And Edward of Wessex, her brother, had been adamant that she refuse. He insisted Northumbria could only be conquered by the combined armies of Wessex and Mercia, yet now he had marched alone? I knew there was a faction in the West Saxon court that insisted Wessex could conquer Northumbria without Mercian help, but Edward had always been more cautious. He wanted his sister’s army alongside his own. I pressed Eadig, but he was sure there had been no Mercian attack. ‘At least not when I left Eoferwic, lord.’
‘It’s just rumours,’ Finan said scornfully. ‘Who knows what’s happening? We’ll get there and find it’s nothing but a god-damned cattle raid.’
‘Scouts,’ Rorik said. I thought he meant that a handful of West Saxon scouts had been mistaken for an invasion, but instead he was pointing behind us, and I turned to see two of the horsemen watching us from a ridge. They were hard to see through the drenching rain, but they were unmistakable. The same small, fast horses, the same long spears. We had seen no scouts for a couple of days, but they were back now and following us.
I spat. ‘Now my cousin knows we’re leaving.’
‘He’ll be happy,’ Finan said.
‘They look like the men who ambushed us,’ Father Eadig said, staring at the distant scouts and making the sign of the cross. ‘There were six of them on fast horses and carrying spears.’ Sigtryggr had sent the priest with an armed escort who had sacrificed their lives so that Eadig alone could escape.
‘They’re my cousin’s men,’ I told Father Eadig, ‘and if we catch any of them I’ll let you kill them.’
‘I couldn’t do that!’
I frowned at him. ‘You don’t want revenge?’
‘I am a priest, lord, I can’t kill!’
‘I’ll teach you how, if you like,’ I said. I doubt I shall ever understand Christianity. ‘Thou shalt not kill!’ their priests teach, then encourage warriors to give battle against the heathen, or even against other Christians if there is a half-chance of gaining land, slaves, or silver. Father Beocca had taught me the nailed god’s ten commandments, but I had long learned that the chief commandment of the Christians was ‘Thou shalt make my priests wealthy’.
For two more days the scouts followed us southwards until, in a wet evening, we reached the wall. The wall! There are many wonders in Britain; the ancient people left mysterious rings of stone, while the Romans built temples, palaces, and great halls, yet of all those wonders it is the wall that amazes me the most.
The Romans, of course, had made it. They had made a wall across Britain, clear across Northumbria, a wall that stretched from the River Tinan on Northumbria’s eastern coast to the Cumbrian coast on the Irish Sea. It ended close to Cair Ligualid, though much of the wall’s stone there had been pillaged to make steadings, yet still most of the wall existed. And not just a wall, but a massive stone rampart, wide enough for men to walk two abreast on its top, and in front of the wall was a ditch and an