The Pale Horseman (The Saxon Stories, #2)

by Bernard Cornwell

“There are times,” Leofric grumbled, “when you are an earsling.” An earsling was something that had dropped out of a creature’s backside and was one of Leofric’s favorite insults. We were friends.

“Ubba fought me man on man,” I said, too loudly now, “one on one, just me and him. My sword against his ax. And he was unwounded when the fight began, father, and at the end of it he was dead. He had gone to his brothers in the corpse hall.”

“This killed Ubba!” I declared, and I drew Serpent-Breath. And that was my next mistake.

the crown had gone to his uncle instead. He gave me a sheepish grin, deferring to the second man who was heavyset, full-bearded, and ten years older than Æthelwold. He introduced himself by sneezing, then blew his nose into his hand and wiped the snot onto his leather coat. “Call it springtime,” he grumbled, then stared at me with a truculent expression. “Damned rain never stops. You know who I am?” “Wulfhere,” I said, “Ealdorman of Wiltunscir.” He was a cousin to the king and a leading power in Wessex.

“What his wife wants me to do,” he went on, “is pull the guts out of your smelly arse and feed them to the pigs.” He glared at me. “You know what the penalty is for drawing a sword in the king’s presence?” “A fine?” I guessed. “Death, you fool, death. They made a new law a month ago.” “How was I supposed to know?” “But Alfred’s feeling merciful.” Wulfhere ignored my question. “So you’re not to dangle off a gallows. Not today, anyhow. But he wants your assurance you’ll keep the peace.” “What peace?” “His damned peace, you fool. He wants us to fight the Danes, not slice each other up. So for the moment you have to swear to keep the peace.” “For the moment?” “For the moment,” he said tonelessly, and I just shrugged. He took that for acceptance. “So you killed Ubba?” he asked. “I did.” “That’s what I hear.” He sneezed again. “You know Edor?” “I know him,” I said. Edor was one of Ealdorman Odda’s battle chiefs, a warrior of the men of Defnascir, and he had fought beside us at Cynuit. “Edor told me what happened,” Wulfhere said, “but only because he trusts me. For God’s sake stop fidgeting!” This last shout was directed at Æthelwold who was poking beneath the altar’s linen cover, presumably in search of something valuable. Alfred, rather than murder his nephew, seemed intent on boring him to death. Æthelwold had never been allowed to fight, lest he make a reputation for himself; instead he had been forced to learn his letters, which he hated, and so he idled his time away, hunti...

But deep under the earth, where the corpse serpent gnaws at the roots of Yggdrasil, the tree of life, there are three spinners, three women who make our fate. We might believe we make choices, but in truth our lives are in the spinners’ fingers. They make our lives, and destiny is everything. The Danes know that, and even the Christians know it. Wyrd bið ful āræd, we Saxons say, fate is inexorable, and the spinners had decided my fate because, a week after the witan had met, when Exanceaster was quiet again, they sent me a ship.

first time since I had crawled on my knees to Alfred’s altar, my spirits lifted. It was Leofric, and then the Eftwyrd’s bow slid onto the mud and the long hull juddered to a halt. Leofric cupped his hands. “How deep is this mud?” “It’s nothing!” I shouted back. “A hand’s depth, no more!” “Can I walk on it?” “Of course you can!” I shouted back. He jumped and, as I had known he would, he sank up to his thighs in the thick black slime, and I bent over my saddle’s pommel in laughter, and the Eftwyrd’s crew laughed with me as Leofric cursed, and it took ten minutes to extricate him from the muck, by which time a score of us were plastered in the stinking stuff, but then the crew, who were mostly my old oarsmen and warriors, brought ale ashore, and bread and salted pork, and we made a midday meal beside the rising tide.

He told me he had learned to speak Danish when he had been enslaved by a chieftain called Godfred, but that he had managed to escape when Godfred raided the Sillans, islands that lay well out in the western sea-wastes. “Is there any wealth in the Sillans?” I asked him. I had heard of the islands, though some men claimed they were mythical and others said the islands came and went with the moons, but Father Mardoc said they existed and were called the Isles of the Dead.

“Of course I’m right! I’m a lord! I’m right and I’m going to be rich! We’re all going to be rich! We shall eat off gold plates, piss down our enemies’ throats, and make their wives into our whores.”

A man came across the horse’s flank; I thought to slice at his ankle, knew he would drop his shield and so open his upper body to an attack, and before the thought was even coherent it was done and Serpent-Breath had taken one of his eyes. She had gone down and up, was already moving to the right to counter another man trying to get around the horse, and I let him get past the stallion’s bloodied head, then scornfully drove him down into the water and there I stood on him, holding his head under my boot as he drowned. I screamed at the Danes, told them I was Valhalla’s gatekeeper, that they had been weaned on coward’s milk, and that I wanted them to come to my blade. I begged them to come, but five men were dead around the horse and the others were now wary.

Iseult crouched beside me and stared far across the waters to where a hill reared up green and steep against the eastern land. “Eanflæd told me that hill is Avalon,” she said reverentially. “Avalon?” “Where Arthur is buried.” “I thought you believed he was sleeping.” “He does sleep,” she said fervently. “He sleeps in his grave with his warriors.” She gazed at the distant hill that seemed to glow because it had been caught by the day’s last errant shaft of sunlight spearing from the west beneath the furnace-glowing clouds. “Arthur,” she said in a whisper. “He was the greatest king who ever lived. He had a magic sword.” She told me tales of Arthur, how he had pulled his sword from a stone, and how he had led the greatest warriors to battle, and I thought that his enemies had been us, the English Saxons, yet Avalon was now in England, and I wondered if, in a few years, the Saxons would recall their lost kings and claim they were great and all the while the Danes would rule us. When the sun vanished Iseult was singing softly in her own tongue, but she told me the song was about Arthur and how he had placed a ladder against the moon and netted a swath of stars to make a cloak for his queen, Guinevere. Her voice carried us across the twilit water, sliding between reeds, and behind us the fires of the Danish ship guards faded in the encroaching dark, and far off a dog howled and the wind sighed cold and a spattering of rain shivered the black mere.

And low in the sky above the cross was the full moon. She was low and ghostly pale, and as the sun rose she faded even more, but as the ten punts drifted down the river I stared at her and said a silent prayer to Hoder because the moon is his woman and it was she who must give us victory. Because, for the first time since Guthrum had struck in a winter’s dawn, the Saxons were fighting back.

The world began in chaos and it will end in chaos. The gods brought the world into existence, and they will end it when they fight among themselves, but in between the chaos of the world’s birth and the chaos of the world’s death is order, and order is made by oaths, and oaths bind us like the buckles of a harness.

“Because it means I’m not alone in this sorry world. Good God, but that Ælswith was weaned on gall juice, wasn’t she? Got a tongue in her like a starving weasel! Poor Alfred.”

He scooped some of the eggs with

his fingers, then passed the pot to me. “Thank God it’s Easter next week,” he said with his mouth full so that scraps of egg lodged in his huge beard, “and then we can eat meat again. I’m wasting away without meat. You know Iseult will be baptized at Easter?”

Why not send the Britons? God could resurrect Arthur and let his people have their revenge, but why send a new people to take the land?

“Life is simple,” I said. “Ale, women, sword, and reputation. Nothing else matters.”

“If you can,” I said, “don’t bury me. Burn my body on a pyre, and put a sword in my hand.” He hesitated, then nodded, knowing he had agreed to a pagan funeral. “I never told you,” he said, “that I am sorry about your son.” “So

“So why did you stop being a warrior?” “Because I found God, Uhtred. Or God found me. And I was becoming too proud. Songs about yourself go to your head and I was wickedly proud of myself, and pride is a terrible thing.” “It’s a warrior’s weapon,” I said. “It is indeed,” he agreed, “and that is why it is a terrible thing, and why I pray God purges me of it.”

“Reading is useful,” Pyrlig said. “What for?” He thought about it. The wind gusted, flapping his hair and beard. “You can read all those good stories in the gospel book,” he suggested brightly, “and the saints’ lives! How about those, eh? They’re full of lovely things, they are. There was Saint Donwen! Beautiful woman she was, and she gave her lover a drink that turned him into ice.” “Why did she do that?” Leofric asked. “Didn’t want to marry him, see?” Pyrlig said, trying to cheer us up, but no one wanted to hear more about the frigid Saint Donwen so

“Every Dane who comes to Britain, father,” I explained, “is a warrior. The farmers stay in Denmark, but the wild men come here. And us? We’re nearly all farmers and it takes three or four farmers to beat down a warrior.”

“He knows, Uhtred, that the enemy are pagans. If they win, then Christ is defeated. This isn’t just a war over land, it’s a war about God. And Alfred, poor man, is Christ’s servant, so he will do all he can for his master, and that means trying to turn you into a pious example of Christian humility. If he can get you onto your knees, then it’ll be easy to make the Danes grovel.”

but in truth I wanted to come with you.” “Why?” “Because I miss this life. God, I miss it! I loved being a warrior. All that irresponsibility! I relished it. Kill and make widows, frighten children! I was good at it, and I miss it. And I was always good at scouting. We’d see you Saxons blundering away like swine and you never knew we were watching you. Don’t worry, I’m not going to talk Christ into you, whatever the king wants.”

“They thought I was a Dane,” I said. I was not in mail and had no helmet, so my long hair fell free down my leather-clad back and my arms were bright with rings. “And they probably thought you were my performing bear,” I added.

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.

“If you had an army of angels, lord,” Pyrlig went on, “then a rousing speech about God and Saint Augustine would doubtless fire their ardor, but you have to fight with mere men, and there’s nothing quite like greed, revenge, and selfishness to inspire mortals.”

“John the Apostle was condemned to death!” Alfred said. “He was condemned to be boiled in oil! Yet he survived the ordeal! He was plunged into the boiling oil and he lived! He came from the cauldron a stronger man! And we shall do the same.” He paused, watching us, and no one responded. We all just gazed at him, and he must have known that his homily on Saint John was not working, for he made an abrupt gesture with his right hand as if he was sweeping all the saints aside. “And tomorrow,” he went on, “is also a day for warriors. A day to kill your enemies. A day to make the pagans wish they had never heard of Wessex!” He paused again, and this time there were some murmurs of agreement. “This is our land! We fight for our homes! For our wives! For our children! We fight for Wessex!”

And I looked,’” Pyrlig said to me, “‘and I saw a pale horse, and the rider’s name was death.’” I just stared in astonishment. “It’s in the gospel book, “he explained sheepishly, “and it just came to mind.” “Then put it out of your mind,” I said harshly, “because our job is to kill him, not fear him.”

“We’re going to win!” I was hardly aware of speaking. I had not meant to make a speech, but I made one anyway. “They’re frightened of us!” I called out. “They’re scared! Most of them are skulking in the fort because they daren’t come out to face Saxon blades! And those men,” I gestured at Svein’s ranks with Wasp-Sting, “know they’re going to die! They’re going to die!” I took a few paces forward and spread my arms to get the Danes’ attention. I held my shield out to the left and Wasp-Sting to the right. “You’re going to die!” I shouted it in Danish, loud as I could, then in English. “You’re going to die!” And all Alfred’s men took up that shout. “You’re going to die! You’re going to die!” Something odd happened then. Beocca and Pyrlig claimed that the spirit of God wafted through our army, and maybe that did happen, or else we suddenly began to believe in ourselves. We believed we could win and as the chant was shouted at the enemy, we began to go forward, step by step, beating swords against shields and shouting that the enemy would die.

It was Svein himself. Svein of the White Horse, and he turned the white horse and spurred toward me with his sword in his right hand. I could hear the hooves thumping, see the clods of wet turf flying behind, see the stallion’s mane tossing, and I could see Svein’s boar-masked helmet above the rim of his shield. Man and horse coming for me, and the Danes were jeering and just then Pyrlig shouted at me. “Uhtred! Uhtred!”

Svein was just getting to his feet as Alfred’s men arrived. I did not see it, but men said Steapa’s sword took Svein’s head off in one blow, a blow so hard that the helmeted head flew into the air. Perhaps that was true, but what was certain was that the passion was on us now: the blinding, seething passion of battle. The blood lust, the killing rage, and the horse was doing the work for us, breaking the Danish shield wall apart so all we had to do was ram into the gaps and kill.

We were making the hilltop rich with Danish blood because we had the fury and they did not, and the men who had fled the field, Osric’s men, were coming back to join the fight.

The poets often sing of that battle, and for once they get something right when they tell of the sword joy, the blade song, the slaughter. We tore Svein’s men to bloody ruin, and we did it with passion, skill, and savagery. The battle calm was on me at last and I could do no wrong. Serpent-Breath had her own life and she stole it from the Danes who tried to oppose me, but those Danes were broken and running and all the left wing of Svein’s vaunted troops was defeated.

Then I heard the shouts. Shouts of anger and screams of pain, and I turned and saw that the Danish horsemen had reached our women, and the women were screaming and there was nothing we could do.

“She has gone to God,” Pyrlig told me when Leofric brought us the news. I was weeping, but I did not know whether it was sorrow or anger that consumed me. I could say nothing. Pyrlig held my shoulders. “She is with God, Uhtred.” “Then the men who sent her there must go to hell,” I said. “Any hell. Freeze or burn, the bastards!”

“In the name of God!” Alfred called, then said no more for suddenly a clap of thunder crashed, a vast sound that consumed the heavens and was so loud that some of us flinched. A crack of lightning splintered white inside the fort. The rain pelted now, a cloudburst that hammered and soaked us, and more thunder rolled away in the distance. Perhaps we thought that noise and savage light was a message from God for suddenly the whole army started forward. No one had given a command unless Alfred’s invocation was an order. We just went.

The king. The king. He had to be protected and he had been in the ditch when I had last seen him, and I knew Alfred was no warrior. He was brave, but he did not love the slaughter as a warrior loves it. I tried to stand again, and this time succeeded, but blood squelched in my right boot and flowed over the boot top when I put my weight on that leg. The ditch bottom was thick with dead and dying men, half drowned by the flood, but the living had fled from the ditch and the Danes were laughing at us. “To me!” I shouted. There had to be one last effort. Steapa and Pyrlig closed on me, and Eadric was there, and I was groggy and my head was filled with a ringing sound and my arm seemed feeble, but we had to make that last effort. “Where’s the king?” I asked.

retreat to Gloucester in Danish-held Mercia. That truce was secured by Danish hostages,

fictional reasons I moved that Saxon victory forward a year, and it forms the ending of