LITMIR.BIZ

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that he is a good servant of Christ, that he is devoted to his father, and that he prays for his father. Why do you think his father trusts him with the command of Ceaster?’ He spoke passionately.

      ‘Do you know a monk called Brother Osric?’ I asked suddenly.

      Swithred gave me a pitying look. He knew I had tried to trap him. ‘No, lord,’ he said, giving the last word a sour taste.

      I tried another question. ‘So Æthelstan should be the next King of Wessex?’

      ‘That is not my decision. God appoints kings.’

      ‘And is your god helped in his choice by wealthy ealdormen?’

      He knew I meant Æthelhelm the Younger. It had occurred to me that Swithred might be sending messages to Æthelhelm. I had no doubt that the ealdorman sought news of Æthelstan and probably had at least one sworn follower somewhere in Ceaster, and I was tempted to think it must be Swithred because the stern, bald priest disliked me so much, but his next words surprised me. ‘It’s my belief,’ he said, ‘that Lord Æthelhelm persuaded the king to give this command to the prince.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘So he would fail, of course. The prince has three burhs to command, Ceaster, Brunanburh, and Mameceaster, and not sufficient men to garrison even one of them properly. He has rebels to contend with, and thousands of Norse settlers north of here. Dear God! He even has Norsemen settled on this peninsula!’

      I could not hide my astonishment. ‘Here? On Wirhealum?’

      Swithred shrugged. ‘You know what’s been happening on this coast? The Irish defeated the Norse settlers, drove many of them out, and so they came here.’ He gestured northwards. ‘Out beyond Brunanburh? There might be five hundred Norse settlers there, and even more north of the Mærse! And thousands more north of the Ribbel.’

      ‘Thousands?’ I asked. Of course I had heard stories of the Norse fleeing Ireland, but thought most had found refuge in the islands off the Scottish coast or in the wild valleys of Cumbraland. ‘The prince is letting his enemies settle on Mercian land? Pagan enemies?’

      ‘We have small choice,’ Swithred said calmly. ‘King Edward conquered East Anglia, now he’s King of Mercia, and he needs all his troops to put down unrest and to garrison the new burhs he’s making. He doesn’t have the men to fight every enemy, and these Norsemen are too numerous to fight. Besides, they’re beaten men. They were defeated by the Irish, they lost much of their wealth and many of their warriors in those defeats, and they crave peace. That’s why they’ve submitted to us.’

      ‘For now,’ I said sourly. ‘Did any of them join Cynlæf?’

      ‘Not one. Ingilmundr could have led his men against us or he could have attacked Brunanburh. He did neither. Instead he kept his men at home.’

      ‘Ingilmundr?’ I asked.

      ‘A Norseman,’ Swithred said dismissively. ‘He’s the chieftain who holds land beyond Brunanburh.’

      I found it difficult to believe that Norse invaders had been allowed to settle so close to Brunanburh and Ceaster. King Edward’s ambition, which was the same as his father King Alfred’s, was to drive the pagan foreigners out of Saxon territory, yet here they were on Ceaster’s doorstep. I supposed that ever since Æthelflaed’s death there had been no stable government in Mercia, Cynlæf’s rebellion was proof of that, and the Northmen were ever ready to take advantage of Saxon weakness. ‘Ingilmundr,’ I said forcefully, ‘whoever he is, might not have marched against you, but he could have come to your relief.’

      ‘The prince sent word that he was to do no such thing. We had no need of help, and we certainly had no need of pagan help.’

      ‘Even my help?’

      The priest turned to me with a ferocious expression. ‘If a pagan wins our battles,’ he said vehemently, ‘then it suggests the pagan gods must have power! We must have faith! We must fight in the belief that Christ is sufficient!’

      I had nothing to say to that. The men who fought for me worshipped a dozen gods and goddesses, the Christian god among them, but if a man believes the nonsense that there is only one god then there’s no point in arguing because it would be like discussing a rainbow with a blind man.

      We had ridden to the north of the city where Æthelstan and a score of armed riders waited for us. Æthelstan greeted me cheerfully. ‘The sun’s shining, the rebels are gone, and God is good!’

      ‘And the rebels didn’t attack Brunanburh?’

      ‘So far as we know. That’s what we’re going to find out.’

      For almost as long as I could remember, Ceaster had been the most northerly burh in Mercia, but Æthelflaed had built Brunanburh just a few miles north and west to guard the River Mærse. Brunanburh was a timber-walled fort, close enough to the river to protect a wooden wharf where warships could be kept. The purpose of the fort was to prevent Norsemen rowing up the Mærse, but if Swithred was right then all the land beyond Brunanburh between the Dee and the Mærse was now settled by pagan Norse. ‘Tell me about Ingilmundr,’ I demanded of Æthelstan as we rode.

      I had asked the question in a truculent tone, but Æthelstan answered enthusiastically. ‘I like him!’

      ‘A pagan?’

      He laughed at that. ‘I like you too, lord,’ he said, ‘sometimes.’ He spurred his horse off the road and onto a track that skirted the Roman cemetery. He glanced at the weather-worn graves and made the sign of the cross. ‘Ingilmundr’s father held land in Ireland. He and his men got beaten and driven to the sea. The father died, but Ingilmundr managed to bring off half his army with their families. I sent a message early this morning asking that he should meet us at Brunanburh because I want you to meet him. You’ll like him too!’

      ‘I probably will,’ I said. ‘He’s a Norseman and a pagan. But that makes him your enemy, and he’s an enemy living on your land.’

      ‘And he pays us tribute. And tribute weakens the payer and acknowledges his subservience.’

      ‘Cheaper in the long run,’ I said, ‘just to kill the bastards.’

      ‘Ingilmundr swore on his gods to live peaceably with us,’ Æthelstan continued, ignoring my comment.

      I leaped on his words. ‘So you trust his gods? You accept they are real?’

      ‘They’re real to Ingilmundr, I suppose,’ Æthelstan said calmly. ‘Why make him take an oath on a god he doesn’t believe in? That just begs for the oath to be broken.’

      I grunted at that. He was right, of course. ‘But no doubt part of the agreement,’ I said scathingly, ‘was that Ingilmundr accepts your damned missionaries.’

      ‘The damned missionaries are indeed part of the agreement,’ he said patiently. ‘We insist on that with every Norseman who settles south of the Ribbel. That’s why my father put a burh at Mameceaster.’

      ‘To protect missionaries?’ I asked, astonished.

      ‘To protect anyone who accepts Mercian rule,’ he said, still patient, ‘and punish anyone who breaks our law. The warriors protect our land, and the monks and priests teach folk about God and about God’s law. I’m building a convent there now.’

      ‘That will terrify the Northmen,’ I said sourly.

      ‘It will help bring Christian charity to a troubled land,’ Æthelstan retorted. His aunt, the Lady Æthelflaed, had always claimed the River Ribbel as Mercia’s northern frontier, though in truth the land between the Mærse and the Ribbel was wild and mostly ungoverned, its coast long settled by Danes who had often raided the rich farmlands around Ceaster. I had led plenty of war-bands north in revenge for those raids, once leading my men as far as Mameceaster, an old Roman fort on a sandstone hill beside the River Mædlak. King Edward had strengthened those old walls and put a garrison into Mameceaster’s

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