LITMIR.BIZ

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groan. His eyes were on Ragnar’s sword.

      Ragnar offered the blade to me. ‘It’s sharp enough,’ he said, ‘but you’ll be surprised by how much force is needed. An axe would be better.’

      Weland looked at me now. His teeth chattered and he twitched. I hated him. I had disliked him from the first, but now I hated him, yet I was still oddly nervous of killing him even though he was already half dead. I have learned that it is one thing to kill in battle, to send a brave man’s soul to the corpse-hall of the gods, but quite another to take a helpless man’s life, and he must have sensed my hesitation for he managed a pitiful plea for his life. ‘I will serve you,’ he said.

      ‘Make the bastard suffer,’ Ragnar answered for me, ‘send him to the corpse-goddess, but let her know he’s coming by making him suffer.’

      I do not think he suffered much. He was already so feeble that even my puny blows drove him to swift unconsciousness, but even so it took a long time to kill him. I hacked away. I have always been surprised by how much effort is needed to kill a man. The skalds make it sound easy, but it rarely is. We are stubborn creatures, we cling to life and are very hard to kill, but Weland’s soul finally went to its fate as I chopped and sawed and stabbed and at last succeeded in severing his bloody head. His mouth was twisted into a rictus of agony, and that was some consolation.

      Now I asked more favours of Ragnar, knowing he would give them to me. I took some of the poorer coins from the hoard, then went to one of the larger monastery buildings and found the writing place where the monks copied books. They used to paint beautiful letters on the books and, before my life was changed at Eoferwic, I used to go there with Beocca and sometimes the monks would let me daub scraps of parchment with their wonderful colours.

      I wanted the colours now. They were in bowls, mostly as powder, a few mixed with gum, and I needed a piece of cloth which I found in the church; a square of white linen that had been used to cover the sacraments. Back in the writing place I drew a wolf’s head in charcoal on the white cloth and then I found some ink and began to fill in the outline. Brida helped me and she proved to be much better at making pictures than I was, and she gave the wolf a red eye and a red tongue, and flecked the black ink with white and blue that somehow suggested fur, and once the banner was made we tied it to the staff of the dead abbot’s cross. Ragnar was rummaging through the monastery’s small collection of sacred books, tearing off the jewel-studded metal plates that decorated their front covers, and once he had all the plates, and once my banner was made, we burned all the timber buildings.

      The rain stopped as we left. We trotted across the causeway, turned south, and Ragnar, at my request, went down the coastal track until we reached the place where the road crossed the sands to Bebbanburg.

      We stopped there and I untied my hair so that it hung loose. I gave the banner to Brida who would ride Ravn’s horse while the old man waited with his son. And then, a borrowed sword at my side, I rode home.

      Brida came with me as standard-bearer and the two of us cantered along the track. The sea broke white to my right and slithered across the sands to my left. I could see men on the walls and up on the Low Gate, watching, and I kicked the horse, making it gallop, and Brida kept pace, her banner flying above, and I curbed the horse where the track turned north to the gate and now I could see my uncle. He was there, Ælfric the Treacherous, thin-faced, dark-haired, gazing at me from the Low Gate and I stared up at him so he would know who I was, and then I threw Weland’s severed head onto the ground where my brother’s head had once been thrown. I followed it with the silver coins.

      I threw thirty coins. The Judas price. I remembered that church tale. It was one of the few that I had liked.

      There were archers on the wall, but none drew. They just watched. I gave my uncle the evil sign, the devil’s horns made with the two outer fingers, and then I spat at him, turned and trotted away. He knew I was alive now, knew I was his enemy, and knew I would kill him like a dog if ever I had the chance.

      ‘Uhtred!’ Brida called. She had been looking behind and I twisted in the saddle to see that one warrior had jumped over the wall, had fallen heavily, but was now running towards us. He was a big man, heavily bearded, and I thought I could never fight such a man, and then I saw the archers loose their arrows and they flecked the ground about the man who I now saw was Ealdwulf, the smith.

      ‘Lord Uhtred!’ Ealdwulf called, ‘Lord Uhtred!’ I turned the horse and went to him, shielding him from the arrows with my horse’s bulk, but none of the arrows came close and I suspect, looking back on that distant day, that the bowmen were deliberately missing. ‘You live, lord!’ Ealdwulf beamed up at me.

      ‘I live.’

      ‘Then I come with you,’ he said firmly.

      ‘But your wife, your son?’ I asked.

      ‘My wife died, lord, last year, and my son was drowned while fishing.’

      ‘I am sorry,’ I said. An arrow skidded through the dune grass, but it was yards away.

      ‘Woden gives, and Woden takes away,’ Ealdwulf said, ‘and he has given me back my lord.’ He saw Thor’s hammer about my neck and, because he was a pagan, he smiled.

      And I had my first follower. Ealdwulf the smith.

      ‘He’s a gloomy man, your uncle,’ Ealdwulf told me as we journeyed south, ‘miserable as shit, he is. Even his new son don’t cheer him up.’

      ‘He has a son?’

      ‘Ælfric the Younger, he’s called, and he’s a bonny wee thing. Healthy as you like. Gytha’s sick though. She won’t last long. And you, lord? You look well.’

      ‘I am well.’

      ‘You’d be twelve now?’

      ‘Thirteen.’

      ‘A man, then. Is that your woman?’ He nodded at Brida.

      ‘My friend.’

      ‘No meat on her,’ Ealdwulf said, ‘so better as a friend.’ The smith was a big man, almost forty years old, with hands, forearms and face black-scarred from countless small burns from his forge. He walked beside my horse, his pace apparently effortless despite his advanced years. ‘So tell me about these Danes,’ he said, casting a dubious look at Ragnar’s warriors.

      ‘They’re led by Earl Ragnar,’ I said, ‘who is the man who killed my brother. He’s a good man.’

      ‘He’s the one who killed your brother?’ Ealdwulf seemed shocked.

      ‘Destiny is everything,’ I said, which might have been true but also avoided having to make a longer answer.

      ‘You like him?’

      ‘He’s like a father to me. You’ll like him.’

      ‘He’s still a Dane, though, isn’t he, lord? They might worship the right gods,’ Ealdwulf said grudgingly, ‘but I’d still like to see them gone.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Why?’ Ealdwulf seemed shocked that I had asked. ‘Because this isn’t their land, lord, that’s why. I want to walk without being afraid. I don’t want to touch my forelock to a man just because he has a sword. There’s one law for them and another for us.’

      ‘There’s no law for them,’ I said.

      ‘If a Dane kills a Northumbrian,’ Ealdwulf said indignantly, ‘what can a man do? There’s no wergild, no reeve to see, no lord to seek justice.’

      That was true. Wergild was the blood price of a man’s life, and every person had a wergild. A man’s was more than a woman’s, unless she was a great woman, and a warrior’s was greater than a farmer’s, but the price was always there, and a murderer could escape being put to death if the family of the murdered man would accept the wergild. The reeve was the man who enforced the law, reporting to his Ealdorman, but that whole careful system of justice had vanished since the Danes had come. There was no law now

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