The Pale Horseman

the second man went on, 'you'll stay here.'

'I just want to see them!' the petulant voice pleaded.

'You'll see them soon enough. But not tomorrow. You'll stay here with the guards.'

'You can't make me.'

'I can do what I like with you, lord. You might command here, but you take my orders all the same.'

The man's voice was hard and deep. 'And my orders are that you're staying here.'

'I'll go if I want,' the first voice insisted weakly and was ignored.

Very slowly, so that the blade made no noise against the scabbard's throat, I drew Serpent-Breath.

Pyrlig watched me, puzzled.

'Walk away,' I whispered to him, 'and make some noise.' He frowned in puzzlement at that, but I jerked my head and he trusted me.

He stood and walked towards our horses, whistling softly, and immediately the two men followed.

The one with the deep voice led. He was an old warrior, scar-faced and bulky. 'You!' he shouted, 'stop!'

And just then I stepped out from behind the hawthorn and swung Serpent-Breath once and her blade cut under his beard and into his throat, and cut so deep that I felt her scrape against his spine and the blood, sudden and bright in the spring dusk, sprayed across the leaf mould. The man went down like a felled ox. The second man, the petulant man, was following close behind and he was too astonished and much too scared to run away and so I seized his arm and pulled him down behind the bushes.

'You can't,' he began and I placed the flat of Serpent-Breath's bloody blade against his mouth so that he whimpered with terror.

'Not a sound,' I said to him, 'or you're dead.' Pyrlig came back then, sword drawn.

Pyrlig looked at the dead man whose breeches were still untied. He stooped to him and made the sign of the cross on his forehead. The man's death had been quick, and the capture of his companion had been quiet, and none of the woodcutters seemed to have taken alarm. Their axes went on thumping, the echoes rattling in the trees.

'We're taking this one back to Alfred,' I told Pyrlig, then I moved Serpent-Breath to my captive's throat. 'Make one sound,' I said, pressing the blade into his skin, 'and I'll gut you from your over-used gullet to your over-used crotch. Do you understand?'

He nodded.

'Because I'm doing you the favour I owe you,' I explained, and smiled nicely.

Because my captive was Æthelwold, Alfred's nephew and the would-be king of the West Saxons.

The man I had killed was named Osbergh and he had been the commander of Wulfhere's household troops. His job on the day of his death was to make certain, Æthelwold got into no trouble.

Æthelwold had a talent for misfortune. By rights he should have been the King of Wessex, though I daresay he would have been the last king for he was impetuous and foolish, and the twin solaces for having lost the throne to his uncle Alfred were ale and women. Yet he had ever wanted to be a warrior.

Alfred had denied him the chance, for he dared not let Æthelwold make a name for himself on the battlefield. Æthelwold, the true king, had to be kept foolish so that no man saw in him a rival for Alfred's throne. It would have been far easier to have killed Æthelwold, but Alfred was sentimental about family. Or perhaps it was his Christian conscience. But for whatever reason, Æthelwold had been allowed to live and had rewarded his uncle's mercy by constantly making a fool of himself.

But in these last months he had been released from Alfred's leash and his thwarted ambition had been given encouragement. He dressed in mail and carried swords. He was a startling looking man, handsome and tall, and he looked the part of the warrior, though he had no warrior's soul. He had pissed himself when I put Serpent-Breath to his throat, and now that he was my captive he showed no defiance. He was submissive, frightened and glad to be led.

He told us how he had pestered Wulfhere to be allowed to fight, and when Osbergh had brought a score of men to guide the Danes in the hills, he had been given notional charge of them. 'Wulfhere said I was in command,' Æthelwold said sullenly, 'but I still had to obey Osbergh.'

'Wulfhere was a damned fool to let you go so far from him,' I said.

'I think he was tired of me,' Æthelwold admitted.

'Tired of you? You were humping his women?'

'She's only a servant.' But I wanted to join the scouting parties, and Wulfhere said I could learn a lot from Osbergh.'

'You've just learned never to piss into a hawthorn bush,' I said, 'and that's worth knowing.'

Æthelwold was riding Pyrlig's horse and the Welsh priest was leading the beast by its reins. I had tied Æthelwold's hands. There was still a hint of light in the western sky, just enough to make our journey down the smaller river easy.

I explained to Pyrlig who Æthelwold was, and the priest grinned up at him. 'So you're a prince of Wessex, eh?'

'I should be king,' Æthelwold said sullenly.

'No you shouldn't,' I said.

'My father was! And Guthrum promised to crown me.'

'And if you believed him,' I said, 'you're a damned fool. You'd be king as long as he needed you, then you'd be dead.'

'Now Alfred will kill me,' he said miserably.

'He ought to,' I said, 'but I owe you a favour.'

'Do you think you can persuade him to let me live?' he asked eagerly.

'You'll do the persuading,' I said. 'You'll kneel to him, and you're going to say that you've been waiting for a chance to escape the Danes, and at last you succeeded, and you got away, found us, and have come to offer him your sword.'

Æthelwold just stared at me.

'I owe you a favour,' I explained, 'and so I'm giving you life. I'll untie your hands, you go to Alfred, and you say you're joining him because that's what you've wanted to do ever since Christmas. You understand that?'

Æthelwold frowned. 'But he hates me!'

'Of course he does,' I agreed, 'but if you kneel to him and swear you never broke your allegiance to him, then what can he do? He'll embrace you, reward you and be proud of you.'

'Truly?'

'So long as you tell him where the Danes are,' Pyrlig put in.

'I can do that,' Æthelwold said, 'they're coming south from Cippanhamm. They marched this morning.'

'How many?'

'Five thousand.'

'Coming here?'

'They're going to wherever Alfred is. They reckon they'll have a chance to destroy him, and after that it's just a summer of women and silver.' He said the last three words plaintively and I knew he had been relishing the prospect of plundering Wessex. 'So how many men does Alfred have?' he asked.

'Three thousand,' I said.

'Sweet Jesus,' he said fearfully.

'You always wanted to be a warrior,' I said, 'and what name can you make for yourself fighting a smaller army?'

'Jesus Christ!'

The last of the light went. There was no moon, but by keeping the river on our left we knew we could not get lost and after a while we saw the glow of firelight showing over the loom of the hills and knew we were seeing Alfred's encampment. I twisted in the saddle then and thought I saw another such glow far to the north. Guthrum's army.