Warriors of the Storm - Bernard Cornwell The Last Kingdom Series

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      ‘Do you always bully old men?’

      ‘I didn’t know!’ he pleaded.

      ‘Hold your sword tight, boy,’ I said, ‘and look for me in Valhalla,’ and I grimaced as I dragged the blade back, sawing at his neck, then thrust it forward, still sawing and he made a whimpering noise as his blood spurted far across the damp pasture. He made a choking sound. ‘Hold onto Blood-Drinker!’ I snarled at him. He seemed to nod, then the light went from his eyes and he fell forward. The sword was still in his hand, so I would meet him again across the ale-board of the gods.

      Berg had disarmed one of the remaining horsemen, while the other was already two hundred paces away and spurring his horse frantically. ‘Should I kill this one, lord?’ Berg asked me.

      I shook my head. ‘He can take a message.’ I walked to the young man’s horse and hauled him hard downwards. He fell from the saddle and sprawled on the turf. ‘Who are you?’ I demanded.

      He gave a name, I forget what it was now. He was a boy, younger than Berg, and he answered our questions willingly enough. Ragnall was making a great wall at Eads Byrig, but he had also made an encampment beside the river where the boats bridged the water. He was collecting men there, making a new army. ‘And where will the army go?’ I asked the boy.

      ‘To take the Saxon town,’ he said.

      ‘Ceaster?’

      He shrugged. He did not know the name. ‘The town nearby, lord.’

      ‘Are you making ladders?’

      ‘Ladders? No, lord.’

      We stripped Othere’s corpse of its mail, took his sword and horse, then did the same to the boy Berg had disarmed. He was not badly wounded, more frightened than hurt, and he shivered as he watched us remount. ‘Tell Ragnall,’ I told him, ‘that the Saxons of Mercia are coming. Tell him that his dead will number in the thousands. Tell him that his own death is just days away. Tell him that promise comes from Uhtred of Bebbanburg.’

      He nodded, too frightened to speak.

      ‘Say my name aloud, boy,’ I ordered him, ‘so I know you can repeat it to Ragnall.’

      ‘Uhtred of Bebbanburg,’ he stammered.

      ‘Good boy,’ I said, and then we rode home.

       THREE

      Bishop Leofstan arrived the next day. Of course he was not the bishop yet, for the time being he was just Father Leofstan, but everyone excitedly called him Bishop Leofstan and kept telling each other that he was a living saint and a scholar. The living saint’s arrival was announced by Eadger, one of my men who was with a work party in the quarry south of the River Dee where they were loading rocks onto a cart, rocks that would eventually be piled on Ceaster’s ramparts as a greeting to any Northman who tried to clamber over our walls. I was fairly certain Ragnall planned no such assault, but if he lost his mind and did try, I wanted him to enjoy a proper welcome. ‘There’s at least eighty of the bastards,’ Eadger told me.

      ‘Priests?’

      ‘There are plenty enough priests,’ he said dourly, ‘but the rest of them?’ He made the sign of the cross, ‘God knows what they are, lord, but there’s at least eighty of them, and they’re coming.’

      I walked to the southern ramparts and gazed at the road beyond the Roman bridge, but saw nothing there. The city gate was closed again. All Ceaster’s gates would stay closed until Ragnall’s men had left the district, but the news of the bishop’s approach was spreading through the town, and Father Ceolnoth came running down the main street, clutching the skirt of his long robe up to his waist. ‘We should open the gates!’ he shouted. ‘He is come unto the gate of my people! Even unto Jerusalem!’

      I looked at Eadger, who shrugged. ‘Sounds like the scripture, lord.’

      ‘Open the gates!’ Ceolnoth shouted breathlessly.

      ‘Why?’ I called down from the fighting platform above the arch.

      Ceolnoth came to an abrupt halt. He had not seen me on the ramparts. He scowled. ‘Bishop Leofstan is coming!’

      ‘The gates stay closed,’ I said, then turned to look across the river. I could hear singing now.

      Finan and my son joined me. The Irishman stared south, frowning. ‘Father Leofstan is coming,’ I explained the excitement. A crowd was gathering in the street, all of them watching the big closed gates.

      ‘So I heard,’ Finan said curtly. I hesitated. I wanted to say something comforting, but what do you say to a man who has killed his own kin? Finan must have sensed my gaze because he growled. ‘Stop your worrying about me, lord.’

      ‘Who said I was worried?’

      He half smiled. ‘I’ll kill some of Ragnall’s men. Then I’ll kill Conall. That’ll cure whatever ails me. Sweet Jesus! What is that?’

      His question was prompted by the appearance of children. They were on the road south of the bridge and, so far as I could tell, all were dressed in white robes. There must have been a score of them, and they were singing as they walked. Some of them were waving small branches in time to their song. Behind them was a group of dark-robed priests and, last of all, a shambling crowd.

      Father Ceolnoth had been joined by his twin brother, and the pair had climbed to the ramparts from where they stared south with ecstatic looks on their ugly faces. ‘What a holy man!’ Ceolnoth said.

      ‘The gates must be open!’ Ceolberht insisted. ‘Why aren’t the gates open?’

      ‘Because I haven’t ordered them opened,’ I growled, ‘that’s why.’ The gates stayed closed.

      The strange procession crossed the river and approached the walls. The children were waving ragged willow fronds in time to their singing, but the fronds drooped and the singing faltered when they reached the flooded ditch and realised they could go no further. Then the voices died away altogether as a young priest pushed his way through the white-robed choir and called up to us. ‘The gates! Open the gates!’

      ‘Who are you?’ I called back.

      The priest looked outraged. ‘Father Leofstan has come!’

      ‘Praise God,’ Father Ceolnoth said, ‘he is come!’

      ‘Who?’ I asked.

      ‘Oh, dear Jesus!’ Ceolberht exclaimed behind me.

      ‘Father Leofstan!’ the young priest called. ‘Father Leofstan is your …’

      ‘Quiet! Hush!’ A skinny priest mounted on an ass called the command. He was so tall and the ass was so small that his feet almost dragged on the roadway. ‘The gates must be closed,’ he called to the angry young priest, ‘because there are heathens close by!’ He half fell off the ass, then limped across the ditch’s wooden bridge. He looked up at us, smiling. ‘Greetings in the name of the living God!’

      ‘Father Leofstan!’ Ceolnoth called and waved.

      ‘Who are you?’ I demanded.

      ‘I am Leofstan, a humble servant of God,’ the skinny priest answered, ‘and you must be the Lord Uhtred?’ I nodded for answer. ‘And I humbly ask your permission to enter the city, Lord Uhtred,’ Leofstan went on.

      I looked at the grubby-robed choir, then at the shambolic crowd, and shuddered. Leofstan waited patiently. He was younger than I had expected, with a broad, pale face, thick lips, and dark eyes. He smiled. I had the impression that he always smiled. He waited patiently, still smiling, just staring at me. ‘Who are those people?’ I demanded, pointing to the shambles who followed him. They were a shambles too. I had never seen so many people in rags. There

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