Harald shifted uneasily. 'What will you do?' he retorted.
Odda gestured at Svein who, the question translated, spoke for the first time. I interpreted for Harald.
‘Wessex is doomed,’ Svein said in his grating voice. ‘By summer it will be swarming with Danes, with men newly come from the north, and the only Saxons who will live will be those men who aid the Danes now. Those who fight against the Danes,’ Svein said, ‘will be dead, and their women will be whores and their children will be slaves and their homes will be lost and their names shall be forgotten like the smoke of an extinguished fire.’
'And Æthelwold will be king?' I asked scornfully. 'You think we will all bow to a whoring drunkard?'
Odda shook his head. 'The Danes are generous,' he said, and he drew back his cloak and I saw that he were six golden arm rings. 'To those who help them,' he said, 'there will be the rewards of land, wealth and honour.'
‘And Æthelwold will be king?' I asked again.
Odda again gestured at Svein. The big Dane seemed bored, but he stirred himself. 'It is right,' he said, 'that Saxons should he ruled by a Saxon. We shall make a king here.'
I scorned that. They had made Saxon kings in Northumbria and in Mercia and those kings were feeble, leashed to the Danes, and then I understood what Svein meant and I laughed aloud. 'He's promised you the throne!' I accused Odda.
'I've heard more sense from a pig's fart,' Odda retorted, but I knew I was right Æthelwold was Guthrum's candidate for the throne of Wessex, but Svein was no friend of Guthrum and would want his own Saxon as king. Odda.
'King Odda,' I said jeeringly, then spat into the fire.
Odda Would have killed me for that, but we met under the terms of a truce and so he forced himself to ignore the insult. He looked at Harald.
'You have a choice, Harald,' he said, 'you can die or you can live.'
Harald was silent. He had not known about Wulfhere, and the news had appalled him. Wulfhere was the most powerful Ealdorman in Wessex, and if he thought Alfred was doomed, then what was Harald to think? I could see the shire-reeve's uncertainty. His decency wanted him to declare loyalty to Alfred, but Odda had suggested that nothing but death would follow such a choice.
'I ...' Harald began, then fell silent, unable to say what he thought for he did not know his own mind.
'The fyrd is raised,' I spoke, for him, 'at the king's orders, and the king's orders are to drive the Danes from Defnascir.'
Odda spat into the fire for answer.
'Svein has been defeated,' I said. 'His ships are burned. He is like a whipped dog and you give him comfort.' Svein, when that was translated, gave me a look like the stroke of a whip. 'Svein,' I went on as though he was not present, 'must be driven back to the sea.
You have no authority here,' Odda said.
'I have Alfred's authority,' I said, 'and a written order telling you to drive Svein from your shire.'
'Alfred's orders mean nothing,' Odda said, 'and you croak like a swamp frog.' He turned to Steapa.
'You have unfinished business with Uhtred.'
Steapa looked uncertain for a heartbeat, then understood what his master meant. 'Yes, lord,' he said.
'Then finish it now.'
'Finish what now?' Harald asked.
'Your king,' Odda said the last word sarcastically, 'ordered Steapa and Uhtred to fight to the death.
Yet both live! So your king's orders have not been obeyed.'
'There is a truce!' Harald protested.
'Either Uhtred stops interfering in the affairs of Defnascir,' Odda said forcefully, 'or I shall have Defnascir kill Uhtred. You want to know who is right? Alfred or me? You want to know who will be king in Wessex, Æthelwold or Alfred? Then put it to the test, Harald. Let Steapa and Uhtred finish their fight and see which man God favours. If Uhtred wins then I shall support you, and if he loses …' He smiled. He had no doubt who would win.
Harald stayed silent. I looked at Steapa and, as on the first time I met him, saw nothing on his face.
He had promised to protect me, but that was before he had been reunited with his master. The Danes looked happy. Why should they mind two Saxons fighting? Harald, though, still hesitated, and then the weary, feeble voice sounded from the doorway at the back of the hall.
'Let them fight, Harald, let them fight.' Odda the Elder, swathed in a wolf-skin blanket, stood at the door. He held a crucifix. 'Let them fight,' he said again, 'and God will guide the victor's arm.'
Harald looked at me. I nodded. I did not want to fight, but a man cannot back down from combat.
What was I to do? Say that to expect God to indicate a course of action through a duel was nonsense?
To appeal to Harald? To claim that everything Odda had said was wrong and that Alfred would win? If I had refused to fight I was granting the argument to Odda, and in truth he had half convinced me that Alfred was doomed, and Harald, I am sure, was wholly convinced. Yet there was more than mere pride making me fight in the hall that day. There was a belief, deep in my soul, that somehow Alfred would survive. I did not like him, I did not like his god, but I believed fate was on his side.
So I nodded again, this time to Steapa. 'I do not want to fight you,' I said to him, 'but I have given an oath to Alfred, and my sword says lie will win and that Danish blood will dung our fields.'
Steapa said nothing. He just flexed his huge arms, then waited as one of Odda's men went outside and returned with two swords. No shields, just swords. He had taken a pair of blades at random from the pile and he offered them to Steapa first who shook his head, indicating that I should have the choice. I closed my eyes, groped, and took the first hilt that I touched. It was a heavy sword, weighted towards its tip. A slashing weapon, not a piercing blade, and I knew I had chosen wrong. Steapa took the other and scythed it through the air so that the blade sang.
Svein, who had betrayed little emotion so far, looked impressed, while Odda the Younger smiled.
'You can put the sword down,' he told me, 'and thus yield the argument to me.'
Instead I walked to the clear space beside the hearth. I had no intention of attacking Steapa, but would let him come to me. I felt weary and resigned. Fate is inexorable.
'For my sake,' Odda the Elder spoke behind me, 'make it fast.'
'Yes, lord,' Steapa said, and he took a step towards me and then turned as fast as a striking snake and his blade whipped in a slash that took Odda the Younger's throat. The sword was not as sharp as it could have been, so that the blow drove Odda down, but it also ripped his gullet open so that blood spurted a blade's length into the air, then splashed into the fire where it hissed and bubbled.
Odda was on the floor-rushes now, his legs twitching, his hands clutching at his throat that still pumped blood. He made a gargling noise, turned on his back and went into a spasm so that his heels drummed against the floor and then, just as Steapa stepped forward to finish him, he gave a last jerk and was dead.
Steapa drove the sword into the floor, leaving it quivering there.
'Alfred rescued me,' he announced to the hall. 'Alfred took me from the Danes. Alfred is my king.'