‘But who are they?’ Finan asked.
That
was the question that nagged at me as we rowed south- wards. Egil had gone back
to his ship and, with his sail showing
a drab frontage, was plunging ahead of us. Despite his suggestion, the Spearhafoc was also under sail, but at
least a half-mile behind Banamaðr. I
did not want my men wearied by hard rowing if they were to fight, and so we had agreed that Egil would turn Banamaðr if he sighted the three ships.
He would turn and pretend to flee towards the coast and so lead the enemy, we hoped, into our ambush. I would
drop our sail when he turned, so that the enemy would not see the great wolf’s
head, but would
think us just another
trading ship that would prove easy prey. We had taken the sparrow-
hawk’s head from the prow. The great
carved symbols were there to placate the gods, to frighten enemies, and drive
off evil spirits, but custom dictated that they could be removed in safe waters
and so, instead of being nailed or scarfed into the prow, they were easily dismounted.
‘Four ships,’ Finan
said flatly, ‘Saxons.’
‘And being clever,’ I said.
‘Clever? You call poking you with a sharp stick clever?’
‘They
attack ships from Bebbanburg, but only harass the others. How long before
King Constantin hears that Uhtred
of Bebbanburg is confiscating
Scottish cargoes?’
‘He’s probably heard already.’
‘So
how long before the Scots decide to punish us?’ I asked. ‘Constantin might be
fighting Owain of Strath Clota, but he still has ships he can send to our
coast.’ I gazed at Banamaðr that was
heeling gently to the west wind and leaving a white wake. For a small boat she was quick and lively.
‘Somebody,’ I went on, ‘wants to
tangle us in a quarrel with the Scots.’
‘And not just the
Scots,’ Finan said.
‘Not just the Scots,’ I
agreed. Ships from Scotland, from East Anglia, from Frisia, and from all the
Viking homelands sailed past
our coast. Even ships
from Wessex. And I had never charged duty on those cargoes. I reckoned it was
none of my business if a Scotsman sailed past my coast with a ship filled with
pelts or pottery. True, if a ship put into one of my harbours then I would charge
a fee, but so did everyone else. But now a small fleet had come to my waters
and was levying a duty in my name, and I suspected I knew where that fleet had
come from. And if I was right, then the four ships had come from the south,
from the lands of Edward, Anglorum
Saxonum Rex.
Spearhafoc plunged her bows into a green sea to
shatter a hard white foam along her decks.
Banamaðr was pitching too, driven by a rising west wind, both of us sailing
southwards to hunt down the ships that
had killed my tenants, and if I was right about those ships, then I had a bloodfeud
on my hands.
A bloodfeud is a war between two
families, both sworn to destroy the other.
My first had been against
Kjartan the Cruel who had slaughtered the whole household of Ragnar,
the Dane who had adop- ted
me as a son. I had welcomed
that feud, and ended it too
by killing both Kjartan and
his son, but this new bloodfeud was against
a far more powerful enemy.
An enemy who lived far to the south in
Edward’s Wessex, where they could
raise an army of household warriors.
And to kill them I must go
there, to where
that army waited to kill
me. ‘She’s turning!’ Finan interrupted my thoughts.
Banamaðr was indeed turning. I saw her sail
come down, saw the late morning
light reflected from oar-blades as they were thrust
outboard. Saw the long oars dip and pull, and saw Banamaðr labouring westwards as if seeking the safety of a
Northumbrian harbour.
So
the bloodfeud, it seemed, had come to me.
I had liked Æthelhelm the
Elder. He had been Wessex’s richest ealdorman, a lord of many estates, a genial
and even a generous man, and yet he had died as my enemy and as my prisoner.
I had
not killed him. I had taken him
prisoner when he
fought against me, then treated him with the honour that his rank
deserved.
But
then he had caught a sweating sickness, and though we
had bled him, though we
had paid our Christian priests to pray for
him, and though we
had wrapped him in pelts and given him the herbs that women had said might cure him, he had
died. His son, Æthelhelm the Younger,
spread the lie that I had killed his father, and he swore to take revenge. He swore a bloodfeud
against me.
Yet I
had thought of Æthelhelm the Elder as a friend before his eldest daughter
married King Edward
of Wessex and gave the king
a son. That son, Æthelhelm’s grandson, Ælfweard, became the ætheling. Crown
Prince Ælfweard! He was a petulant and spoiled child who had grown to be a sour, sullen and selfish young man, cruel
and vain. Yet Ælfweard was not
Edward’s eldest son, that was Æthelstan, and Æthelstan was also my friend.
So why
was Æthelstan not the ætheling? Because Æthelhelm spread the rumour, a false
rumour, that Æthelstan was a bastard, that Edward had never married his mother.
So Æthelstan was exiled to Mercia, where I had met him and where I came to admire the boy. He grew into a warrior, a man of justice, and the only fault
I could find in him was his passionate adherence to his Christian god.
And
now Edward was sick. Men knew he must die soon. And when he died there would be
a struggle between the supporters of
Æthelhelm the Younger, who wanted
Ælfweard on the throne, and those who knew that Æthelstan would make the better
king. Wessex and Mercia, joined in an uncertain union, would be torn apart by
battle. And so Æthelstan had asked me to swear an oath. That on King Edward’s
death I would kill Æthelhelm and so destroy his power over the nobles who
must meet in the Witan to confirm the new king.
And that was why I would
need go to Wessex, where
my enemies were numerous.Because I had sworn an
oath.
And I
had no doubt that Æthelhelm had sent the ships north to weaken me, to distract
me, and, with any luck, to kill me.
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