LITMIR.BIZ

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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 a¯ræd.

      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 sceptically. ‘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,’

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