Mercia Driven

The campfires were dense there, burning between low shelters

made of branches and turf. To the south of the crude shelters were a dozen

lavish tents, placed close to the ruins of the old Roman arena, which, even

though it had been used as a convenient quarry, still rose higher than the tents

above which two flags hung motionless in the still air. "If Cynlæf's still here,"

I said, "he'll be in one of those tents."

"Let's hope the bastard's drunk."

"Or else he's in the arena," I said. The arena was built just outside the city

and was a vast hulk of stone. Beneath its banked stone seating were cave-like rooms that, when I had last explored them, were home to wild dogs. "If he

had any sense," I went on, "he'd have abandoned this siege. Left men to keep

the garrison starving, and gone south. That's where the rebellion will be won

or lost, not here."

"Does he have sense?"

"Daft as a turnip," I said, and then started laughing. A group of women

burdened with firewood had stepped off the road to kneel as we passed, and

they looked up at me in astonishment. I waved at them. "We're about to make

some of them widows," I said, still laughing.

"And that's funny?"

I spurred Tintreg into a trot. "What's funny," I said, "is that we're two old

men riding to war."

"You, maybe," Finan said pointedly.

"You're my age!"

"I'm not a grandfather!"

"You might be. You don't know."

"Bastards don't count."

"They do," I insisted.

"Then you're probably a great-grandfather by now."

I gave him a harsh look. "Bastards don't count," I snarled, making him

laugh, then he made the sign of the cross because we had reached the Roman

cemetery that stretched either side of the road. There were ghosts here, ghosts

wandering between the lichen-covered stones with their fading inscriptions

that only Christian priests who understood Latin could read. Years before, in a

fit of zeal, a priest had started throwing down the stones, declaring they were

pagan abominations. That very same day he was struck down dead and ever

since the Christians had tolerated the graves, which, I thought, must be

protected by the Roman gods. Bishop Leofstan had laughed when I told him

that story, and had assured me that the Romans were good Christians. "It was

our god, the one true god, who slew the priest," he had told me. Then

Leofstan himself had died, struck down just as suddenly as the grave-hating

priest. Wyrd bið ful āræd.

My men were strung out now, not quite in single file, but close. None

wanted to ride too near the road's verges because that was where the ghosts

gathered. The long, straggling line of horsemen made us vulnerable, but the

enemy seemed oblivious to our threat. We passed more women, all bent beneath great burdens of firewood they had cut from spinneys north of the

graves. The nearest campfires were close now. The afternoon's light was

fading, though dusk was still an hour or more away. I could see men on the

northern city wall, see their spears, and knew they must be watching us. They

would think we were reinforcements come to help the besiegers.

I curbed Tintreg just beyond the old Roman cemetery to let my men catch

up. The sight of the graves and thinking of Bishop Leofstan had brought back

memories. "Remember Mus?" I asked Finan.

"Christ! How could anyone forget her?" He grinned. "Did you . . ." he

began.

"Never. You?"

He shook his head. "Your son gave her a few good rides."

I had left my son in command of the troops garrisoning Bebbanburg.

"He's a lucky boy," I said. Mus, her real name was Sunngifu, was small like a

mouse, and had been married to Bishop Leofstan. "I wonder where Mus is

now?" I asked. I was still gazing at Ceaster's northern wall, trying to estimate

how many men stood guard on the ramparts. "More than I expected," I said.

"More?"

"Men on the wall," I explained. I could see at least forty men on the

ramparts, and knew there must be just as many on the eastern wall, which

faced the bulk of the enemy.

"Maybe they were reinforced?" Finan suggested.

"Or the monk was wrong, which wouldn't surprise me."

A monk had come to Bebbanburg with news of Ceaster's siege. We

already knew of the Mercian rebellion, of course, and we had welcomed it. It

was no secret that Edward, who now styled himself King of the Angles and

Saxons, wanted to invade Northumbria and so make that arrogant title come

true. Sigtryggr, my son-in-law and King of Northumbria, had been preparing

for that invasion, fearing it too, and then came the news that Mercia was

tearing itself apart, and that Edward, far from invading us, was fighting to

hold onto his new lands. Our response was obvious; do nothing! Let Edward's

realm tear itself into shreds, because every Saxon warrior who died in Mercia

was one less man to bring a sword into Northumbria.

Yet here I was, on a late winter's afternoon beneath a darkening sky,

coming to fight in Mercia. Sigtryggr had not been happy, and his wife, my

daughter, even unhappier. "Why?" she had demanded.

"I took an oath," I had told them both, and that had stilled their protests.

Oaths are sacred. To break an oath is to invite the anger of the gods, and

Sigtryggr had reluctantly agreed to let me relieve the siege of Ceaster. Not

that he could have done much to stop me; I was his most powerful lord, his

father-in-law, and the Lord of Bebbanburg, indeed he owed me his kingdom,

but he insisted I take fewer than a hundred warriors. "Take more," he had

said, "and the damned Scots will come over the frontier." I had agreed. I led

just ninety men, and with those ninety I intended to save King Edward's new

kingdom.

"You think Edward will be grateful?" my daughter had asked, trying to

find some good news in my perverse decision. She was thinking that

Edward's gratitude might persuade him to abandon his plans to invade

Northumbria.

"Edward will think I'm a fool."

"You are!" Stiorra had said.

"Besides, I hear he's sick."

"Good," she had said vengefully. "Maybe his new wife has worn him

out?"

Edward would not be grateful, I thought, whatever happened here. Our

horses' hooves were loud on the Roman road. We still rode slowly, showing

no threat. We passed the old worn stone pillar that said it was one mile to

Deva, the name the Romans had given Ceaster. By now we were among the

hovels and campfires of the encampment, and folk watched us pass. They

showed no alarm, there were no sentries, and no one challenged us. "What's

wrong with them?" Finan growled at me.

"They think that if relief comes," I said, "it'll come from the east, not the

north. So they think we're on their side."

"Then they're idiots," he said. He was right, of course. Cynlæf, if he still

commanded here, should have sentries posted on every approach to the

besiegers' camp, but the long cold weeks of the siege had made them lazy and

careless. Cynlæf just wanted to capture Ceaster, and had forgotten to watch

his back.

Finan, who had the eyes of a hawk, was gazing at the city wall. "That

monk was full of shit," he said scornfully. "I can see fifty-eight men on the

north wall!"

The monk who had brought me the news of the siege had been certain that

the garrison was perilously small. "How small?" I had asked him.

"No more than a hundred men, lord."

I had looked at him skeptically. "How do you know?"

"The priest told me, lord," he said nervously. The monk, who was called

Brother Osric, claimed to be from a monastery in Hwite, a place I had never

heard of, but which the monk said was a few hours' walking south of Ceaster.

Brother Osric had told us how a priest had come to his monastery. "He was

dying, lord! He had gripe in his guts."

"And that was Father Swithred?"

"Yes, lord."

I knew Swithred. He was an older man, a fierce and sour priest who

disliked me. "And the garrison sent him to get help?"

"Yes, lord."

"They didn't send a warrior?"

"A priest can go where warriors cannot, lord," Brother Osric had

explained. "Father Swithred said he left the city at nightfall and walked

through the besiegers' camp. No one challenged him, lord. Then he walked

south to Hwite."

"Where he was taken ill?"

"Where he was dying as I left, lord," Brother Osric had made the sign of

the cross. "It is God's will."

"Your god has a strange will," I had snarled.

"And Father Swithred begged my abbot to send one of us to reach you,

lord," Brother Osric had continued, "and that was me," he finished lamely. He

had been kneeling in supplication, and I saw a savage red scar crossing his

tonsure.

"Father Swithred doesn't like me," I said, "and he hates all pagans. Yet he

sent for me?"

The question had made Brother Osric uncomfortable. He had blushed,

then stammered, "He . . . he . . ."

"He insulted me," I suggested.

"He did, lord, he did." He sounded relieved that I had anticipated an

answer he had been reluctant to say aloud. "But he also said you would

answer the garrison's plea."

"And Father Swithred didn't carry a letter?" I asked, "a plea for help?"

"He did, lord, but he vomited on it." He had grimaced. "But it was nasty, lord, all blood and bile."

"How did you get the scar?" I had asked him.

"My sister hit me, lord." He had sounded surprised at my question. "With

a reaping hook, lord."

"And how many men in the besieging force?"

"Father Swithred said there were hundreds, lord." I remember how

nervous Brother Osric had been, but I put that down to his fear at meeting me,

a famous pagan. Did he think I had horns and a forked tail? "By God's grace,

lord," he went on, "the garrison fought off one assault, and I pray to God that

the city hasn't fallen by now. They beseech your help, lord."

"Why hasn't Edward helped?"

"He has other enemies, lord. He's fighting them in southern Mercia." The

monk had looked up beseechingly. "Please, lord! The garrison can't last

long!"

Yet they had lasted, and we had come. We had left the road by now, and

our horses walked slowly through the besiegers' encampment. The luckiest

folk had found shelter in the farm buildings that had been made by the

Romans. They were good stone buildings, though the long years had

destroyed their roofs, which were now untidy heaps of thatch on beams, but

most people were in crude shelters. Women were feeding the fires with newly

gathered wood, readying to cook an evening meal. They seemed incurious

about us. They saw my mail coat and silver-crested helmet, saw the silver

ornaments on Tintreg's bridle, and so realized I was a lord and dutifully knelt

as I passed, but none dared ask who we were.

I halted in an open space to the northeast of the city. I gazed around,

puzzled because I could see few horses. The besiegers must have horses. I had

planned to drive those horses away to prevent men using them to escape, as

well as to capture the beasts to defray the costs of this winter journey, but I

could see no more than a dozen. If there were no horses then we had the

advantage, and so I turned Tintreg and walked him back through my men

until I reached the packhorses. "Unbundle the spears," I ordered the boys.

There were eight heavy bundles tied with leather ropes. Each spear was about

seven feet long with an ash shaft and a sharpened steel blade. I waited as the

bundles were untied and as each of my men took one of the weapons. Most

also carried a shield, but a few preferred to ride without the heavy willow

boards. The enemy had let us come into the center of their encampment and

they must have seen my men taking their spears, yet still they did nothing

except watch us dully. I waited for the boys to coil the leather ropes, then climb back into their saddles. "You boys," I called to the servants, "ride east,

wait out in the fields till we send for you. Not you, Rorik."