Read Online Warriors of the Storm by Bernard Cornwell - Free Book Online
Authors: Bernard Cornwell
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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 ofhis 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
‘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 ofhis 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
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