‘A skald?’
‘A scop, you would call me. A poet, a weaver of dreams, a man who makes glory from nothing and dazzles you with its making. And my job now is to tell this day’s tale in such a way that men will never forget our great deeds.’
‘But if you cannot see,’ I asked, ‘how can you tell what happened?’
Ravn laughed at that. ‘Have you heard of Odin? Then you should know that Odin sacrificed one of his own eyes so that he could obtain the gift of poetry. So perhaps I am twice as good a skald as Odin, eh?’
‘I am descended from Woden,’ I said.
‘Are you?’ He seemed impressed, or perhaps he just wanted to be kind. ‘So who are you, Uhtred, descendant of the great Odin?’
‘I am the Ealdorman of Bebbanburg,’ I said, and that reminded me I was fatherless and my defiance crumpled and, to my shame, I began to cry. Ravn ignored me as he listened to the drunken shouts and the songs and the shrieks of the girls who had been captured in our camp and who now provided the warriors with the reward for their victory, and watching their antics took my mind off my sorrow because, in truth, I had never seen such things before though, God be thanked, I took plenty of such rewards myself in times to come.
‘Bebbanburg?’ Ravn said. ‘I was there before you were born. It was twenty years ago.’
‘At Bebbanburg?’
‘Not in the fortress,’ he admitted, ‘it was far too strong. But I was to the north of it, on the island where the monks pray. I killed six men there. Not monks, men. Warriors.’ He smiled to himself, remembering. ‘Now tell me, Ealdorman Uhtred of Bebbanburg,’ he went on, ‘what is happening.’
So I became his eyes and I told him of the men dancing, and the men stripping the women of their clothes, and what they then did to the women, but Ravn had no interest in that. ‘What,’ he wanted to know, ‘are Ivar and Ubba doing?’
‘Ivar and Ubba?’
‘They will be on the high platform. Ubba is the shorter and looks like a barrel with a beard, and Ivar is so skinny that he is called Ivar the Boneless. He is so thin that you could press his feet together and shoot him from a bowstring.’
I learned later that Ivar and Ubba were the two oldest of three brothers and the joint leaders of this Danish army. Ubba was asleep, his black-haired head cushioned by his arms that, in turn, were resting on the remnants of his meal, but Ivar the Boneless was awake. He had sunken eyes, a face like a skull, yellow hair drawn back to the nape of his neck, and an expression of sullen malevolence. His arms were thick with the golden rings Danes like to wear to prove their prowess in battle, while a gold chain was coiled around his neck. Two men were talking to him. One, standing just behind Ivar, seemed to whisper into his ear, while the other, a worried-looking man, sat between the two brothers. I described all this to Ravn, who wanted to know what the worried man sitting between Ivar and Ubba looked like.
‘No arm rings,’ I said, ‘a gold circlet around his neck. Brown hair, long beard, quite old.’
‘Everyone looks old to the young,’ Ravn said. ‘That must be King Egbert.’
‘King Egbert?’ I had never heard of such a person.
‘He was Ealdorman Egbert,’ Ravn explained, ‘but he made his peace with us in the winter and we have rewarded him by making him king here in Northumbria. He is king, but we are the lords of the land.’ He chuckled, and young as I was I understood the treachery involved. Ealdorman Egbert held estates to the south of our kingdom and was what my father had been in the north, a great power, and the Danes had suborned him, kept him from the fight, and now he would be called king, yet it was plain that he would be a king on a short leash. ‘If you are to live,’ Ravn said to me, ‘then it would be wise to pay your respects to Egbert.’
‘Live?’ I blurted out the word. I had somehow thought that having survived the battle then of course I would live. I was a child, someone else’s responsibility, but Ravn’s words hammered home my reality. I should never have confessed my rank, I thought. Better to be a living slave than a dead Ealdorman.
‘I think you’ll live,’ Ravn said. ‘Ragnar likes you and Ragnar gets what he wants. He says you attacked him?’
‘I did, yes.’
‘He would have enjoyed that. A boy who attacks Earl Ragnar? That must be some boy, eh? Too good a boy to waste on death he says, but then my son always had a regrettably sentimental side. I would have chopped your head off, but here you are, alive, and I think it would be wise if you were to bow to Egbert.’
Now, I think, looking back so far into my past, I have probably changed that night’s events. There was a feast, Ivar and Ubba were there, Egbert was trying to look like a king, Ravn was kind to me, but I am sure I was more confused and far more frightened than I have made it sound. Yet in other ways my memories of the feast are very precise. Watch and learn, my father had told me, and Ravn made me watch, and I did learn. I learned about treachery, especially when Ragnar, summoned by Ravn, took me by the collar and led me to the high dais where, after a surly gesture of permission from Ivar, I was allowed to approach the table. ‘Lord King,’ I squeaked, then knelt so that a surprised Egbert had to lean forward to see me. ‘I am Uhtred of Bebbanburg,’ I had been coached by Ravn in what I should say, ‘and I seek your lordly protection.’
That produced silence, except for the mutter of the interpreter talking to Ivar. Then Ubba awoke, looked startled for a few heartbeats as if he were not sure where he was, then he stared at me and I felt my flesh shrivel for I had never seen a face so malevolent. He had dark eyes and they were full of hate and I wanted the earth to swallow me. He said nothing, just gazed at me and touched a hammer-shaped amulet hanging at his neck. Ubba had his brother’s thin face, but instead of fair hair drawn back against the skull, he had bushy black hair and a thick beard that was dotted with scraps of food. Then he yawned and it was like staring into a beast’s maw. The interpreter spoke to Ivar who said something and the interpreter, in turn, talked to Egbert who tried to look stern. ‘Your father,’ he said, ‘chose to fight us.’
‘And is dead,’ I answered, tears in my eyes, and I wanted to say something more, but nothing would come, and instead I just snivelled like an infant and I could feel Ubba’s scorn like the heat of a fire. I cuffed angrily at my nose.
‘We shall decide your fate,’ Egbert said loftily, and I was dismissed.
I went back to Ravn who insisted I tell him what had happened, and he smiled when I described Ubba’s malevolent silence. ‘He’s a frightening man,’ Ravn agreed, ‘to my certain knowledge he’s killed sixteen men in single combat, and dozens more in battle, but only when the auguries are good, otherwise he won’t fight.’
‘The auguries?’
‘Ubba is a very superstitious young man,’ Ravn said, ‘but also a dangerous one. If I give you one piece of advice, young Uhtred, it is never, never, to fight Ubba. Even Ragnar would fear to do that and my son fears little.’
‘And Ivar?’ I asked, ‘would your son fight Ivar?’
‘The boneless one?’ Ravn considered the question. ‘He too is frightening, for he has no pity, but he does possess sense. Besides, Ragnar serves Ivar if he serves anyone, and they’re friends, so they would not fight. But Ubba? Only the gods tell him what to do, and you should beware of men who take their orders from the gods. Cut me some of the crackling, boy. I particularly like pork crackling.’
I cannot remember now how long I was in Eoferwic. I was put to work, that I do remember. My fine clothes were stripped from me and given to some Danish boy, and in their place I was given a flea-ridden shift of tattered wool that I