LITMIR.BIZ

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fields beyond. The first riders gathered at the river bank, in clear view of the Danes, and waited while the rest of the men filed through the gate. Once all four hundred were gathered they turned west and spurred away through the trees towards the road which would eventually lead to Wintanceaster. I was still on the ramparts from where I watched the Danes gather to stare at the commotion on our bank, and I did not doubt that messengers were galloping to find Harald and inform him that the Saxon army was retreating.

      Except we were not retreating because, once among the trees, the four hundred men doubled back and re-entered Æscengum by the western gate, which was out of the enemy’s sight. It was then that I went down to the main street and hauled myself into Smoka’s saddle. I was dressed for war in mail, gold and steel. Alfred appeared at the church door, his eyes half closing against the sudden sunlight as he came from the holy gloom. He returned my greeting with a nod, but said nothing. Æthelred, my cousin, was noisier, demanding to know where his wife was. I heard a servant report that Æthelflæd was at prayer in the nunnery, and that seemed to satisfy Æthelred, who assured me loudly that his Mercian troops would be waiting at Fearnhamme. ‘Aldhelm’s a good man,’ he said, ‘he likes a fight.’

      ‘I’m glad of it,’ I said, pretending friendship with my cousin, just as Æthelred was pretending that Aldhelm had not been given secret instructions to retreat northwards if he took fright at the numbers opposing him. I even held my hand down from Smoka’s high saddle, ‘we shall win a great victory, Lord Æthelred,’ I said loudly.

      Æthelred seemed momentarily astonished by my apparent affability, but clasped my hand anyway. ‘With God’s help, cousin,’ he said, ‘with God’s help.’

      ‘I pray for that,’ I answered. The king gave me a suspicious look, but I just smiled cheerfully. ‘Bring the troops when you think best,’ I called to Alfred’s son, Edward, ‘and always take Lord Æthelred’s advice.’

      Edward looked to his father for some guidance on what he should reply, but received none. He nodded nervously. ‘I shall, Lord Uhtred,’ he said, ‘and God go with you!’

      God might go with me, but Æthelred would not. He had chosen to ride with the West Saxon troops who would follow the Danes, and thus be part of the hammer that would shatter Harald’s forces on the anvil of his Mercian warriors. I had half feared he would come with me, but it made sense for Æthelred to stay with his father-in-law. That way, if Aldhelm chose to retreat, Æthelred could not be blamed. I suspected there was another reason. When Alfred died, Edward would be named king unless the witan wanted an older and more experienced man, and Æthelred doubtless believed he would gain more renown by fighting with the West Saxons this day.

      I pulled on my wolf-crested helmet and nudged Smoka towards Steapa who, grim in mail and hung with weapons, waited beside a smithy. Charcoal smoke sifted from the door. I leaned down and slapped my friend’s helmet. ‘You know what to do?’ I asked.

      ‘Tell me one more time,’ he growled, ‘and I’ll rip your liver out and cook it.’

      I grinned. ‘I’ll see you tonight,’ I said. I was pretending that Edward commanded the West Saxons, and that Æthelred was his chief adviser, but in truth I trusted Steapa to make the day go as I had planned. I wanted Steapa to choose the moment when the seven hundred warriors left Æscengum to pursue Harald’s men. If they left too soon Harald could turn and cut them to ribbons, while leaving too late would mean my seven hundred troops would be slaughtered at Fearnhamme. ‘We’re going to make a famous victory this day,’ I told Steapa.

      ‘If God wills it, lord,’ he said.

      ‘If you and I will it,’ I said happily, then leaned down and took my heavy linden shield from a servant. I hung the shield on my back, then spurred Smoka to the northern gate where Alfred’s gaudy wagon waited behind a team of six horses. We had harnessed horses to the cumbersome cart because they were faster than oxen. Osferth, looking miserable, was the wagon’s only passenger. He was dressed in a bright blue cloak and wearing a circlet of bronze on his head. The Danes did not know that Alfred eschewed most symbols of kingship. They expected a king to wear a crown and so I had ordered Osferth to wear the polished bauble. I had also persuaded Abbot Oslac to give me two of his monastery’s less valuable reliquaries. One, a silver box moulded with pictures of saints and studded with stones of jet and amber, had held the toe bones of Saint Cedd, but now contained some pebbles which would puzzle the Danes if, as I hoped, they captured the wagon. The second reliquary, also of silver, had a pigeon feather inside, because Alfred famously travelled nowhere without the feather that had been plucked from the dove Noah had released from the ark. Besides the reliquaries we had also put an iron-bound wooden chest in the wagon. The chest was half filled with silver and we would probably lose it, but I expected to gain far more. Abbot Oslac, wearing a mail coat beneath his monkish robes, had insisted on accompanying my two hundred men. A shield hung at his left side and a monstrous war axe was strapped to his broad back. ‘That looks well used,’ I greeted him, noting the nicks in the axe’s wide blade.

      ‘It’s sent many a pagan to hell, Lord Uhtred,’ he answered happily.

      I grinned and spurred to the gate where Father Beocca, my old and stern friend, waited to bless us. ‘God go with you,’ he said as I reached him.

      I smiled down at him. He was lame, white-haired, cross-eyed and club-footed. He was also one of the best men I knew, though he mightily disapproved of me. ‘Pray for me, father,’ I said.

      ‘I never cease,’ Beocca said.

      ‘And don’t let Edward lead the men out too soon! Trust Steapa! He might be dumb as a parsnip, but he knows how to fight.’

      ‘I shall pray that God gives them both good judgement,’ my old friend said. He reached up his good hand to clutch my gloved hand. ‘How is Gisela?’

      ‘Maybe a mother again. And Thyra?’

      His face lit up like tinder catching flame. This ugly, crippled man who was mocked by children in the street had married a Dane of startling beauty. ‘God keeps her in his loving hand,’ he told me. ‘She is a pearl of great price!’

      ‘So are you, father,’ I said, then ruffled his white hair to annoy him.

      Finan spurred beside me. ‘We’re ready, lord.’

      ‘Open the gate!’ I shouted.

      The wagon was first through the wide arch. Its holy banners swayed alarmingly as it lurched onto the rutted track, then my two hundred men, bright in mail, rode after it and turned westwards. We flew standards, braying horns announced our departure and the sun shone on the royal wagon. We were the lure, and the Danes had seen us. And so the hunt began.

      The wagon led the way, lumbering along a farm track that would lead us to the Wintanceaster road. A shrewd Dane might well wonder why, if we wanted to retreat to the larger burh at Wintanceaster, we would use Æscengum’s northern gate instead of the western, which led directly onto the road, but I somehow doubted those worries would reach Harald. Instead he would hear that the King of Wessex was running away, leaving Æscengum to be protected by its garrison that was drawn from the fyrd. The men of the fyrd were rarely trained warriors. They were farmers and labourers, carpenters and thatchers, and Harald would undoubtedly be tempted to assault their wall, but I did not believe he would yield to the temptation, not while a much greater prize, Alfred himself, was apparently vulnerable. The Danish scouts would be telling Harald that the King of Wessex was in the open country, travelling in a slow wagon protected by a mere couple of hundred horsemen, and Harald’s army, I was certain, would be ordered to the pursuit.

      Finan commanded my rearguard, his job to tell me when the enemy pursuit got too close. I stayed near the wagon and, just as we reached the Wintanceaster road a half-mile west of Æscengum, a slender rider spurred alongside me. It was Æthelflæd, clad in a long mail coat that appeared to be made from silver rings close-linked over a deerskin tunic. The mail coat fitted her tightly, clinging to her thin body, and I guessed that it was fastened at the back with loops and buttons because no one could pull such a tight coat over their head and shoulders. Over the mail she wore a white cloak, lined with red, and she

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