The Burning Land (2 page)

“Why don’t the Danes send us missionaries?” I asked.

“God prevents it, lord,” Willibald said. His companion, a priest whose name I have long forgotten, nodded earnest agreement.

“Maybe they’ve got better things to do?” I suggested.

“If the Danes have ears to hear, lord,” Willibald assured me, “then they will receive Christ’s message with joy and gladness!”

“You’re a fool, father,” I said fondly. “You know how many of Alfred’s missionaries have been slaughtered?”

“We must all be prepared for martyrdom, lord,” Willibald said, though anxiously.

“They have their priestly guts slit open,” I said ruminatively, “they have their eyes gouged out, their balls sliced off, and their tongues ripped out. Remember that monk we found at Yppe?” I asked Finan. Finan was a fugitive from Ireland, where he had been raised a Christian, though his religion was so tangled with native myths that it was scarcely recognizable as the same faith that Willibald preached. “How did that poor man die?” I asked.

“They skinned the poor soul alive,” Finan said.

“Started at his toes?”

“Just peeled it off slowly,” Finan said, “and it must have taken hours.”

“They didn’t peel it,” I said, “you can’t skin a man like a lamb.”

“True,” Finan said. “You have to tug it off. Takes a lot of strength!”

“He was a missionary,” I told Willibald.

“And a blessed martyr too,” Finan added cheerfully. “But they must have got bored because they finished him off in the end. They used a tree-saw on his belly.”

“It was probably an ax,” I said.

“No, it was a saw, lord,” Finan insisted, grinning, “and one with savage big teeth. Ripped him into two, it did.” Father Willibald, who had always been a martyr to seasickness, staggered to the ship’s side.

We turned the ship southward. The estuary of the Temes is a treacherous place of mudbanks and strong tides, but I had been patrolling these waters for five years now and I scarcely needed to look for my landmarks as we rowed toward the shore of Scaepege. And there, ahead of me, waiting between two beached ships, was the enemy. The Danes. There must have been a hundred or more men, all in chain mail, all helmeted, and all with bright weapons. “We could slaughter the whole crew,” I suggested to Finan. “We’ve got enough men.”

“We agreed to come in peace!” Father Willibald protested, wiping his mouth with a sleeve.

And so we had, and so we did.

I ordered
Kenelm
and
Dragon-Voyager
to stay close to the muddy shore, while we drove
Seolferwulf
onto the gently shelving mud between the two Danish boats.
Seolferwulf
’s bows made a hissing sound as she slowed and stopped. She was firmly grounded now, but the tide was rising, so she was safe for a while. I jumped off the prow, splashing into deep wet mud, then waded to firmer ground where our enemies waited.

“My Lord Uhtred,” the leader of the Danes greeted me. He grinned and spread his arms wide. He was a stocky man, golden-haired and square-jawed. His beard was plaited into five thick ropes fastened with silver clasps. His forearms glittered with rings of gold and silver, and more gold studded the belt from which hung a thick-bladed sword. He looked prosperous, which he was, and something about the openness of his face made him appear trustworthy, which he was not. “I am so overjoyed to see you,” he said, still smiling, “my old valued friend!”

“Jarl Haesten,” I responded, giving him the title he liked to use,
though in my mind Haesten was nothing but a pirate. I had known him for years. I had saved his life once, which was a bad day’s work, and ever since that day I had been trying to kill him, yet he always managed to slither away. He had escaped me five years before and, since then, I had heard how he had been raiding deep inside Frankia. He had amassed silver there, had whelped another son on his wife, and had attracted followers. Now he had brought eighty ships to Wessex.

“I hoped Alfred would send you,” Haesten said, holding out a hand.

“If Alfred hadn’t ordered me to come in peace,” I said, taking the hand, “I’d have cut that head off your shoulders by now.”

“You bark a lot,” he said, amused, “but the louder a cur barks, lord, the weaker its bite.”

I let that pass. I had not come to fight, but to do Alfred’s bidding, and the king had ordered me to bring missionaries to Haesten. Willibald and his companion were helped ashore by my men, then came to stand beside me, where they smiled nervously. Both priests spoke Danish, which is why they had been chosen. I had also brought Haesten a message gilded with treasure, but he feigned indifference, insisting I accompany him to his encampment before Alfred’s gift was delivered.

Scaepege was not Haesten’s main encampment, that was some distance to the east where his eighty ships were drawn up on a beach protected by a newly made fort. He had not wanted to invite me into that fastness, and so he had insisted Alfred’s envoys meet him among the wastes of Scaepege which, even in summer, is a place of dank pools, sour grass, and dark marshes. He had arrived there two days before, and had made a crude fort by surrounding a patch of higher ground with a tangled wall of thorn bushes, inside which he had raised two sailcloth tents. “We shall eat, lord,” he invited me grandly, gesturing to a trestle table surrounded by a dozen stools. Finan, two other warriors, and the pair of priests accompanied me, though Haesten insisted the priests should not sit at the table. “I don’t trust Christian wizards,” he explained, “so they can squat on the ground.” The food was a fish stew and rock-hard bread,
served by half-naked slave women, none more than fourteen or fifteen years old, and all of them Saxons.

Haesten was humiliating the girls as a provocation and he watched for my reaction. “Are they from Wessex?” I asked.

“Of course not,” he said, pretending to be offended by the question. “I took them from East Anglia. You want one of them, lord? There, that little one has breasts firm as apples!”

I asked the apple-breasted girl where she had been captured, and she just shook her head dumbly, too frightened to answer me. She poured me ale that had been sweetened with berries. “Where are you from?” I asked her again.

Haesten looked at the girl, letting his eyes linger on her breasts. “Answer the lord,” he said in English.

“I don’t know, lord,” she said.

“Wessex?” I demanded. “East Anglia? Where?”

“A village, lord,” she said, and that was all she knew, and I waved her away.

“Your wife is well?” Haesten asked, watching the girl walk away.

“She is.”

“I am glad,” he said convincingly enough, then his shrewd eyes looked amused. “So what is your master’s message to me?” he asked, spooning fish broth into his mouth and dripping it down his beard.

“You’re to leave Wessex,” I said.

“I’m to leave Wessex!” He pretended to be shocked and waved a hand at the desolate marshes. “Why would a man want to leave all this, lord?”

“You’re to leave Wessex,” I said doggedly, “agree not to invade Mercia, give my king two hostages, and accept his missionaries.”

“Missionaries!” Haesten said, pointing his horn spoon at me. “Now you can’t approve of that, Lord Uhtred! You, at least, worship the real gods.” He twisted on the stool and stared at the two priests. “Maybe I’ll kill them.”

“Do that,” I said, “and I’ll suck your eyeballs out of their sockets.”

He heard the venom in my voice and was surprised by it. I saw a
flicker of resentment in his eyes, but he kept his voice calm. “You’ve become a Christian, lord?”

“Father Willibald is my friend,” I said.

“You should have said,” he reproved me, “and I would not have jested. Of course they will live and they can even preach to us, but they’ll achieve nothing. So, Alfred instructs me to take my ships away?”

“Far away,” I said.

“But where?” he asked in feigned innocence.

“Frankia?” I suggested.

“The Franks have paid me to leave them alone,” Haesten said, “they even built us ships to hasten our departure! Will Alfred build us ships?”

“You’re to leave Wessex,” I said stubbornly, “you’re to leave Mercia untroubled, you’re to accept missionaries, and you are to give Alfred hostages.”

“Ah.” Haesten smiled. “The hostages.” He stared at me for a few heartbeats, then appeared to forget the matter of hostages, waving seaward instead. “And where are we to go?”

“Alfred is paying you to leave Wessex,” I said, “and where you go is not my concern, but make it very far from the reach of my sword.”

Haesten laughed. “Your sword, lord,” he said, “rusts in its scabbard.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder, toward the south. “Wessex burns,” he said with relish, “and Alfred lets you sleep.” He was right. Far to the south, hazed in the summer sky, were pyres of smoke from a dozen or more burning villages, and those plumes were only the ones I could see. I knew there were more. Eastern Wessex was being ravaged, and, rather than summon my help to repel the invaders, Alfred had ordered me to stay in Lundene to protect that city from attack. Haesten grinned. “Maybe Alfred thinks you’re too old to fight, lord?”

I did not respond to the taunt. Looking back down the years I think of myself as young back then, though I must have been all of thirty-five or thirty-six years old that year. Most men never live that long, but I was fortunate. I had lost none of my sword-skill or
strength, I had a slight limp from an old battle-wound, but I also had the most golden of all a warrior’s attributes; reputation. But Haesten felt free to goad me, knowing that I came to him as a supplicant.

I came as a supplicant because two Danish fleets had landed in Cent, the easternmost part of Wessex. Haesten’s was the smaller fleet, and so far he had been content to build his fortress and let his men raid only enough to provide themselves with sufficient food and a few slaves. He had even let the shipping in the Temes go unmolested. He did not want a fight with Wessex, not yet, because he was waiting to see what happened to the south, where another and much greater Viking fleet had come ashore.

Jarl Harald Bloodhair had brought more than two hundred ships filled with hungry men, and his army had stormed a half-built burh and slaughtered the men inside, and now his warriors were spreading across Cent, burning and killing, enslaving and robbing. It was Harald’s men who had smeared the sky with smoke. Alfred had marched against both invaders. The king was old now, old and ever more sick, so his troops were supposedly commanded by his son-in-law, Lord Æthelred of Mercia, and by the Ætheling Edward, Alfred’s eldest son.

And they had done nothing. They had put their men on the great wooded ridge at the center of Cent from where they could strike north against Haesten or south against Harald, and then they had stayed motionless, presumably frightened that if they attacked one Danish army the other would assault their rear. So Alfred, convinced that his enemies were too powerful, had sent me to persuade Haesten to leave Wessex. Alfred should have ordered me to lead my garrison against Haesten, allowed me to soak the marshes with Danish blood, but instead I was instructed to bribe Haesten. With Haesten gone, the king thought, his army might deal with Harald’s wild warriors.

Haesten used a thorn to pick at his teeth. He finally scraped out a scrap of fish. “Why doesn’t your king attack Harald?” he asked.

“You’d like that,” I said.

He grinned. “With Harald gone,” he admitted, “and that rancid whore of his gone as well, a lot of crews would join me.”

“Rancid whore?”

He grinned, pleased that he knew something I did not. “Skade,” he said flatly.

“Harald’s wife?”

“His woman, his bitch, his lover, his sorceress.”

“Never heard of her,” I said.

“You will,” he promised, “and if you see her, my friend, you’ll want her. But she’ll nail your skull to her hall gable if she can.”

“You’ve seen her?” I asked, and he nodded. “You wanted her?”

“Harald’s impulsive,” he said, ignoring my question. “And Skade will goad him to stupidity. And when that happens a lot of his men will look for another lord.” He smiled slyly. “Give me another hundred ships, and I could be King of Wessex inside a year.”

“I’ll tell Alfred,” I said, “and maybe that will persuade him to attack you first.”

“He won’t,” Haesten said confidently. “If he turns on me then he releases Harald’s men to spread across all Wessex.”

That was true. “So why doesn’t he attack Harald?” I asked.

“You know why.”

“Tell me.”

He paused, wondering whether to reveal all he knew, but he could not resist showing off his knowledge. He used the thorn to scratch a line in the wood of the table, then made a circle that was bisected by the line. “The Temes,” he said, tapping the line, “Lundene,” he indicated the circle. “You’re in Lundene with a thousand men, and behind you,” he tapped higher up the Temes, “Lord Aldhelm has five hundred Mercians. If Alfred attacks Harald, he’s going to want Aldhelm’s men and your men to go south, and that will leave Mercia wide open to attack.”

“Who would attack Mercia?” I asked innocently.

“The Danes of East Anglia?” Haesten suggested just as innocently. “All they need is a leader with courage.”

“And our agreement,” I said, “insists you will not invade Mercia.”

“So it does,” Haesten said with a smile, “except we have no agreement yet.”

But we did. I had to yield
Dragon-Voyager
to Haesten, and in her
belly lay four iron-bound chests filled with silver. That was the price. In return for the ship and the silver, Haesten promised to leave Wessex and ignore Mercia. He also agreed to accept missionaries and gave me two boys as hostages. He claimed one was his nephew, and that might have been true. The other boy was younger and dressed in fine linen with a lavish gold brooch. He was a good-looking lad with bright blond hair and anxious blue eyes. Haesten stood behind the boy and placed his hands on the small shoulders. “This, lord,” he said reverently, “is my eldest son, Horic. I yield him as a hostage.” Haesten paused, and seemed to sniff away a tear. “I yield him as a hostage, lord, to show goodwill, but I beg you to look after the boy. I love him dearly.”