Usurper, page 6
‘Ready?’ Osbert asked. ‘Am I to understand that, if the Vikings do come here, you’ll seek to resist them?’ He seemed more troubled by this prospect than by the invaders’ actual presence in the earldom.
‘There are different meanings to the word “resist”,’ Cerdic said. ‘We obviously can’t go and fight them down on the valley road. But we can sit behind our palisade if we need to, and keep our gates barred.’
Osbert twitched with discomfort. ‘Would even that be wise?’
Cerdic raised an eyebrow. ‘You’re suggesting we… let them in?’
‘Lord Cerdic…’ Osbert smiled understandingly, as though imparting a simple lesson to a confused child. ‘I know it doesn’t feel like it at present, but autumn will very soon be on us. And after that, winter. And you propose that we spend all that time under siege?’
‘We are well provisioned to withstand a siege, are we not? The harvest has been gathered, the grain-rooms are full to bursting.’
Osbert shrugged. ‘That’s true, but we haven’t yet started baking bread or collecting and salting meat for the winter.’
‘Our outhouses are stacked with fruits and fresh-dug vegetables.’
‘My lord—’
‘The Vikings won’t have that advantage,’ Letwold chipped in. They looked at him. He reddened, unused to being the centre of attention. ‘Pardon me, Lord, but if the Vikings manage to come this far north, that means they’ll already have got past or through your father’s company. Like as not though, they’ll have suffered losses. Even as victors, they won’t be a huge number. They’ll be spread out even if only to raid more widely. For all these reasons, it’s difficult to think they’d have enough organisation to supply themselves for a winter-long siege…’
‘May I ask why our young friend is even here with us?’ Osbert said tersely.
Cerdic was still thinking on Letwold’s words; he couldn’t be too fulsome in his acceptance of them, but they made a worrying kind of sense. ‘Because Letwold is the closest thing we have in Wulfbury to a housecarl.’
Osbert and Cuthred glanced at their lord with a bewilderment verging on incredulity.
Cerdic was undeterred. ‘And because he’s making military sense. If what you mean, Letwold, is that a Viking force coming here won’t have the resources to mount a lengthy siege and thus will try to storm the burh, I’m inclined to agree.’
Letwold made a helpless gesture. ‘In which case, what will we do?’
‘Surrender, of course.’ Osbert made it sound like the most obvious answer in the world. ‘Go into captivity. They’ll accept us. Why have our heads on spikes if they can have ransom payments instead?’
‘They won’t get ransom payments for the common people of the dale,’ Aethelric said.
Osbert seemed puzzled that this had even been raised. ‘The common people must make do as best they can.’
‘Flee into the hills, you mean?’
‘It’s not like it isn’t a time-honoured tradition.’
‘With autumn coming, as you say, and then winter?’
‘What else?’ It wasn’t a real question. Osbert was being dismissive. In his mind at least, this question was settled.
Cerdic looked to Cuthred. ‘What say you?’
The gatekeeper pursed his lips. ‘Oh, it’s not for me to have a say on things like this, Lord.’
‘I’m giving you an opportunity to tell us what’s on your mind, because something clearly is.’
Briefly, Cuthred looked flustered. ‘I… I was a soldier once, as you know.’
‘I know.’
‘I went with your father to Scotland.’
‘And distinguished yourself at Dunsinane.’
‘But that was years ago, Lord. And we were many then, not the few we are today. And even then, sometimes…’ The gatekeeper’s hard-bitten features flushed. ‘Sometimes, to pointlessly resist, to kill enemies when there’s nothing to be gained from it, a course that will enrage them even more… well, I’d call that ill-advised.’
Cerdic nodded. Finally, he looked at Aethelric. ‘You’ve been unusually short on helpful suggestions.’
The priest considered. ‘It’s really about the purpose of any resistance.’
Cerdic frowned. ‘The purpose will be to save as many people as possible for as long as possible.’
‘Which would be laudable if that was solely it.’
‘What are you trying to say, Aethelric?’
‘Excuse me, Lord,’ Osbert interrupted. ‘“As many people as possible for as long as possible?” How would we do that?’
‘By bringing them into the burh,’ Cerdic replied. ‘How else?’
‘Offer them refuge here? How many?’
The lad shrugged. ‘I don’t know. It depends how much warning the Northmen give us. It may only be the population of Brackley-on-the-Water. It may be less than that, but it may also be more.’
Osbert looked aghast, and not without cause. Cerdic knew that if there was any type of siege here, their current resources would see them through until spring, but would be stretched to breaking much sooner should the burh be flooded with refugees. But in truth, this whole conversation felt superfluous. Even from the brief discussion they’d had, it was already clear there were too many variables, too many uncertainties to make firm plans.
‘We shouldn’t agonise over this just yet,’ Aethelric said, apparently reaching the same conclusion. ‘For one thing, the most likely outcome is that no Northmen will come here. Harald Sigurdsson seeks the throne of England, not the Earldom of Northumbria, and certainly not the fortress of Wulfbury. As Cuthred says, he is fifty miles to the south, and before he can even leave that place, he must fight the combined forces of our northern earls… and that is assuming the king himself doesn’t come, which your father was confident he would, my lord.’
Cerdic nodded, but was reluctant to give too much ground. It wouldn’t flatter his position if he backed down completely. ‘I still feel we should make some rudimentary preparations. Cuthred, take charge of your fyrdsmen. Drill them a little, if you can.’
‘Drill them? Lord, they’re just farm lads…’
‘Had they been selected to accompany the rest of the landfyrd, they’d be expected to fight in the second or third line,’ Cerdic said. ‘The least you can do is drill them. In addition, allocate them watch-points around the palisade. Cover all approaches. And make sure they know they have a job to do and must stay alert.’
‘Ten of them, Lord? To watch our whole perimeter?’
‘It won’t even be ten,’ Osbert put in sulkily. ‘They can’t man their posts day and night. You’ll need to organise shifts…’
‘Then organise shifts,’ Cerdic retorted. ‘And make sure that at least every day from now on, one of them rides a few miles along the York road, questioning local folk and passers-by about any suspicious activity they may have seen. Don’t worry, Osbert, it will be far less difficult for you… all you need do is source some additional accommodation for anyone seeking shelter in the burh should the Vikings attack.’
‘Well, my lord, in truth, that will be difficult—’
‘Do it anyway!’
The steward looked beseechingly at Aethelric.
‘Our household chaplain has no say in this,’ Cerdic added heatedly. ‘And even if he did, until the commencement of November, I am in command at Wulfbury. And I am requiring you to make living space for extra people. Now, both of you… go about your new duties. Straight away!’
The pair shuffled off with attitudes of surprised but suppressed annoyance. Cerdic was also annoyed. He hadn’t wanted to raise his voice, but he couldn’t have them treating him like a green boy or, even worse, a simpering Church novice who hadn’t had his head shaved yet. Even if he was both of those things.
‘Where do you want me?’ Letwold asked.
‘You know our predicament,’ Cerdic replied. ‘Pick the spot where you feel you’ll be most useful.’
Letwold seemed a little crestfallen not to have been allocated a specific duty, but he nodded obediently and departed the hall. Aethelric stood up too, his expression strangely inscrutable.
‘I thought you’d approve of me making space for the villagers, at least,’ Cerdic said.
The priest pondered. ‘Did I say that I didn’t?’
Cerdic sat back. ‘No, but you didn’t praise me for it, either.’
‘Ah, it’s praise you want?’
The lad shook his head with disbelief. Everything he said was being twisted…
‘May I enquire what’s brought about this change of heart?’ Aethelric asked. ‘Now, all of a sudden, you are taking charge here for the month of October?’
‘You never produced the letter I requested, stating otherwise.’
‘You know I never intended to. And now you are going to the Minster School at the start of November?’
‘If that’s in my wyrd.’
Aethelric winced at the pagan term, but shook his head. ‘You can’t fool me, Cerdic. I know what’s going on here. You seek now to be a solid figurehead. You’re no longer the proud boy who wants to run off to war to prove he can fight. Instead, you’re a man of wise counsel. And you aim to impress me so much with this that I’ll tell your father you’d be wasted in a habit.’
Cerdic shrugged. ‘Even if that was my plan—’
‘It is your plan, my lord.’
‘Even if it was, mature governance is beneficial to all, is it not? Isn’t wise counsel to be sought?’
‘Wise counsel, yes?’
‘I see. You’re worried I’m looking to pick a fight if the Northmen come? You’re concerned I’m so distraught about not going to the real war that I’ll start my own?’
‘Cerdic… the simple fact is, if the Norse do come here, and as I say, it’s unlikely, you’ll need to negotiate. And yes, it will be better to do that from a position of strength, but to get the outcome we all want, you’ll need to be seeking a peaceful solution, not looking to make your mark in history. And to achieve that, it may require a significant sacrifice.’
Cerdic said nothing, but clearly this was an oblique reference to his father’s treasure, the bulk of which was buried somewhere in the precincts of the burh itself, but which only Earl Rothgar and a select few knew the exact location of.
So… buy the Vikings off. That was Aethelric’s cryptic advice.
It was hardly controversial. The whole concept of Danegeld, a policy approved by king after king throughout history, had been to give the invaders treasure rather than make them fight for it, thus minimising their aggression, sending them away happy rather than with blades dripping.
It never stopped them coming back for more, of course, but who was Cerdic to raise such concerns when they’d always been ignored in the past?
‘You think we should dig up Father’s silver,’ he said. It wasn’t a question.
Aethelric was non-committal. ‘Your father himself made provision for a geld payment should the worst come to the worst. But my main concern is that you’re so eager to prove yourself, you’re confecting a risk we actually don’t face.’
‘So, what would you have from me?’
‘Allow Osbert and Cuthred to do their jobs.’ Aethelric edged his way down the hall. He had other tasks to attend to, which were clearly now pressing. ‘We’ll watch the York road closely, of course we will. But your main priority now should be to focus on your studies, which are almost complete, and to prepare for your new life. You have one month’s stay, but trust me, that month will be gone in the blink of an eye.’
Cerdic walked along the hall with him. They halted at the top of the entrance steps.
‘I don’t dismiss your anxieties,’ the priest said, ‘but we all have hopes, desires and dreams that are… unrealistic.’ Cerdic said nothing, just watched him. ‘In most cases, it doesn’t hurt to strive for them. But some of us have duty too. And duty must always come first.’
‘Duty?’ Cerdic said. ‘That’s all I seem to be hearing about these days. But there appear to be various ways I can perform my duty here.’
‘There aren’t. There’s only one. And I think you already know that.’
With a vaguely sympathetic smile, Aethelric walked away. Cerdic stood in weary silence.
So, even if the Northmen came here, his options to do Earl Rothgar proud were thin. In fact, according to the wisest man in Wulfbury, there were no options at all. Except to give away the family wealth. To acquiesce to this murderous dog, Hardraada, and his traitorous friend, Tostig, without so much as a harsh word. And all in the same month that his father and brother had vanished into the inferno of war. The mere thought was intolerable, and yet on the other hand, was it truly better to fight and lose than not fight at all? Especially with such a potential cost in innocent lives?
Cerdic’s head ached. He’d been leader here for one day, and already the trials and tribulations of the role were more than he could bear. In truth, it was a relief that such horrors would only come to pass if his father was defeated, which was also inconceivable.
That definitely would not happen. It could not.
Spying movement, he glanced up to the palisade gantry. The ten fyrdsmen assigned to the burh had taken position there. Twenty yards to their left, Letwold, now having donned his ring-mail coat and strapped a war-axe to his waist, prowled back and forth, visibly nervous, anticipating action at any moment. Every few yards, he would halt, turn and gaze stiffly to the east, determined to sight the enemy before the enemy sighted Wulfbury. Meanwhile, at ground level, life in the burh went on seemingly as normal, the thralls hurrying about their business, the household’s skilled labourers working in their shops. Even the fyrdsmen seemed relaxed. For one thing, there was no sign of Cuthred, so they weren’t being drilled, not yet, while for another, they weren’t even keeping watch, just talking quietly together, throwing the occasional amused glance at Letwold’s back.
Helpless and disconsolate, Cerdic trailed through the hall. The obvious thing now was to head to the chapel, where he could throw himself on his knees and pray for guidance, though partly because he didn’t expect to receive any, and even if he did, it would likely be guidance he didn’t want, his feet chose a different route, turning him into his sleeping quarters at the hall’s western end. Here, he pulled a chest from under his cot, and from it a ring-mail coat, not the battered one with links missing that he used for training, but the new one that was presented to him by the housecarls on his seventeenth birthday. It was expensively wrought and gleamed in the candlelight. All he’d need do was throw it over his head, buckle it at the waist and pull on the leather, steel-studded gauntlets that Unferth had given him for his sixteenth, and at least then he’d look like a leader.
Or would he? Would it not be more self-defeating folly, the earl’s second son, the one who hadn’t gone to war, now strutting around the burh like some military buffoon… like Letwold?
He laid the mail-coat down, and instead, took the broadsword from under his bed. Just touching it was reassuring.
It was Danish in design, captured at Tettenhall and passed down through several generations of his family, which meant it had seen battle upon battle. Its great wood-and-iron cross hilt was bound with wolf fur, its pommel set with a sphere of emerald just under half the size of his fist. This was a fabulous gemstone, his father had always said, no doubt pillaged from some shrine in the East. The blade had originally been notched with heathen runes, which Earl Rothgar had wanted to beat out before gifting the sword to his son, though in the end his smith had advised against this for fear that it might weaken the blade. Cerdic had not been concerned by that, as he felt the ancient symbols added to the weapon’s majesty, though in due course he’d persuaded Aethelric to take the sword with him on one of his journeys to York, where he’d paid a Norse trader to translate the meaning of the inscription.
‘“Usurper”,’ Aethelric had explained on returning, with a hint of disapproval. ‘In other words, one who takes power by force, invariably when he has no right to it. That doesn’t speak well of its original owner… a conqueror with violence in his heart.’
‘He paid the price for that at Tettenhall,’ Cerdic had replied.
‘One can only hope.’
Still mesmerised by the weapon’s perfection, not to mention the mysteries of its past, Cerdic held the blade aloft to catch the beam of daylight spearing through the sheet of horn covering his bed-chamber’s one upper window. Blue steel shimmered; the engraved characters, pagan or not, were flawlessly done. It was the handiwork of a master sword-maker.
Usurper. His most valued possession.
Sliding it back into the fleece scabbard and clipping it to his belt, he went outside and walked to the drill-yard. If nothing else, the housecarls’ absence meant there was no queue for the hewing block. He clasped Usurper’s hilt, thinking to work out his frustrations by hacking wood. But almost immediately, he came to a standstill.
Perched atop the great scarred hunk of timber was the largest raven Cerdic had ever seen. Its feathers shone like black metal, and its beak was an axeblade.
‘Be off!’ He threw a handful of wood chips at it.
It hopped about on top of the block, unconcerned. Only when he drew his sword did it flap away, circling up to perch above the thatched eave of the barracks, from where it peered down at him with eyes that were soulless chips of jet.
CHAPTER 7
Earl Rothgar and his hearth-troop arrived outside York on the evening of the third day after their departure, halting on the riverside meadow northwest of the city, where a vast range of tents and pavilions already covered the landscape. Household pennons fluttered, spears stood in racks, pillars of smoke ascending from innumerable cooking fires. Everywhere, men in ring-mail coats stood in groups or practised with axe and shield.
The earl was greeted by a horseman wearing black and blood-red livery, and carrying a standard depicting a red bear on a black field, the sigil of Morcar, Earl of Northumbria. The horseman, a marshal of the earl’s personal household, welcomed the lord of Ripon, and directed him to a corner of the meadow reserved for his company.
