‘They’ll be watching for more spies,’ I said, not wanting Ragnar to end up headless before the walls.
‘A leader leads,’ Ragnar said, ‘and you can’t ask men to risk death if you’re not willing to risk it yourself.’
‘Let me go,’ I said.
He laughed at that. ‘What kind of leader sends a boy to do a man’s job, eh?’
‘I’m English,’ I said, ‘and they won’t suspect an English boy.’
Ragnar smiled at me. ‘If you’re English,’ he said, ‘then how could we trust you to tell us the truth of what you see?’
I clutched Thor’s hammer. ‘I will tell the truth,’ I said, ‘I swear it. And I’m a Dane now! You’ve told me that! You say I’m a Dane!’
Ragnar began to take me seriously. He knelt to look into my face. ‘Are you really a Dane?’ he asked.
‘I’m a Dane,’ I said and, at that moment I meant it. At other times I was sure I was a Northumbrian, a secret sceadugengan hidden among the Danes, and in truth I was confused. I loved Ragnar as a father, was fond of Ravn, wrestled and raced and played with Rorik when he was well enough, and all of them treated me as one of them. I was just from another tribe. There were three main tribes among the Northmen; the Danes, the Norse and the Svear, but Ragnar said there were others, like the Getes, and he was not sure where the Northmen ended and the others began, but suddenly he was worried about me. ‘I’m a Dane,’ I repeated forcibly, ‘and who better than me to spy on them? I speak their language!’
‘You’re a boy,’ Ragnar said, and I thought he was refusing to let me go, but instead he was getting used to the idea. ‘No one will suspect a boy,’ he went on. He still stared at me, then stood and glanced again at the two bodies where ravens were pecking at the severed heads. ‘Are you sure, Uhtred?’
‘I’m sure.’
‘I’ll ask the brothers,’ he said, and he did, and Ivar and Ubba must have agreed for they let me go. It was after dark when the gate was opened and I slipped out. Now, I thought, I am a Shadow-Walker at last, though in truth the journey needed no supernatural skills for there was a slew of campfires in the Mercian and West Saxon lines to light the way. Ragnar had advised me to skirt the big encampment and see if there was an easy way in at the back, but instead I walked straight towards the nearest fires that lay behind the felled trees that served as the English protective wall, and beyond that black tangle I could see the dark shapes of sentries outlined by the campfires. I was nervous. For months I had been treasuring the idea of the sceadugengan, and here I was, out in the dark, and not far away there were headless bodies and my imagination invented a similar fate for myself. Why? One small part of me knew I could walk into the camp and say who I was, then demand to be taken to Burghred or to Æthelred, yet I had spoken the truth to Ragnar. I would go back, and I would tell the truth. I had promised that, and to a boy promises are solemn things, buttressed by the dread of divine revenge. I would choose my own tribe in time, but that time had not yet come, and so I crept across the field feeling very small and vulnerable, my heart thumping against my ribs, and my soul consumed by the importance of what I did.
And halfway to the Mercian camp I felt the hairs on the back of my neck prickle. I had the sensation I was being followed and I twisted, listened and stared, and saw nothing but the black shapes that shudder in the night, but like a hare I sprinted to one side, dropped suddenly and listened again, and this time I was sure I heard a footfall in the grass. I waited, watched, saw nothing and crept on until I reached the Mercian barricade and I waited again there, but heard nothing more behind me and decided I had been imagining things. I had also been worrying that I would not be able to pass the Mercian obstacles, but in the end it was simple enough because a big felled tree left plenty of space for a boy to wriggle through its branches, and I did it slowly, making no noise, then ran on into the camp and was almost immediately challenged by a sentry. ‘Who are you?’ the man snarled and I could see the firelight reflecting from a glittering spear head that was being run towards me.
‘Osbert,’ I said, using my old name.
‘A boy?’ The man checked, surprised.
‘Needed a piss.’
‘Hell, boy, what’s wrong with pissing outside your shelter?’
‘My master doesn’t like it.’
‘Who’s your master?’ The spear had been lifted and the man was peering at me in the small light from the fires.
‘Beocca,’ I said. It was the first name that came to my head.
‘The priest?’
That surprised me, and I hesitated, but then nodded and that satisfied the man. ‘Best get back to him then,’ he said.
‘I’m lost.’
‘Shouldn’t come all this way to piss on my sentry post then, should you?’ he said, then pointed. ‘It’s that way, boy.’
So I walked openly through the camp, past the fires and past the small shelters where men snored. A couple of dogs barked at me. Horses whinnied. Somewhere a flute sounded and a woman sang softly. Sparks flew up from the dying fires.
The sentry had pointed me towards the West Saxon lines. I knew that because the dragon banner was hung outside a great tent that was lit by a larger fire, and I moved towards that tent for lack of anywhere else to go. I was looking for ladders, but saw none. A child cried in a shelter, a woman moaned, and some men sang near a fire. One of the singers saw me, shouted a challenge and then realised I was just a boy and waved me away. I was close to the big fire now, the one that lit the front of the bannered tent, and I skirted it, going towards the darkness behind the tent that was lit from within by candles or lanterns. Two men stood guard at the tent’s front and voices murmured from inside, but no one noticed me as I slipped through the shadows, still looking for ladders. Ragnar had said the ladders would be stored together, either at the heart of the camp or close to its edge, but I saw none. Instead I heard sobbing.
I had reached the back of the big tent and was hiding beside a great stack of firewood and, judging by the stink, was close to a latrine. I crouched and saw a man kneeling in the open space between the woodpile and the big tent and it was that man who was sobbing. He was also praying and sometimes beating his chest with his fists. I was astonished, even alarmed by what he did, but I lay on my belly like a snake and wriggled in the shadows to get closer to see what else he might do.
He groaned as if in pain, raised his hands to the sky, then bent forward as if worshipping the earth. ‘Spare me, God,’ I heard him say, ‘spare me. I am a sinner.’ He vomited then, though he did not sound drunk, and after he had spewed up he moaned. I sensed he was a young man, then a flap of the tent lifted and a wash of candlelight spilled across the grass. I froze, still as a log, and saw that it was indeed a young man who was so miserable, and then also saw, to my astonishment, that the person who had lifted the tent flap was Father Beocca. I had thought it a coincidence that there should be two priests with that name, but it was no coincidence at all. It was indeed red-haired, cross-eyed Beocca and he was here, in Mercia.
‘My lord,’ Beocca said, dropping the flap and casting darkness over the young man.
‘I am a sinner, father,’ the man said. He had stopped sobbing, perhaps because he did not want Beocca to see such evidence of weakness, but his voice was full of sadness. ‘I am a grievous sinner.’
‘We are all sinners, my lord.’
‘A grievous sinner,’ the young man repeated, ignoring Beocca’s solace. ‘And I am married!’
‘Salvation lies in remorse, my lord.’