Alfred said something to Beocca who produced a sheet of parchment and a quill which he gave to the prince. Beocca then held a small vial of ink so that Alfred could dip the quill and write.
‘What is he doing?’ Ivar asked.
‘He is making notes of our talks,’ the English interpreter answered.
‘Notes?’
‘So there is a record, of course.’
‘He has lost his memory?’ Ivar asked, while Ubba produced a very small knife and began to clean his fingernails. Ragnar pretended to write on his hand, which amused the Danes.
‘You are Ivar and Ubba?’ Alfred asked through his interpreter.
‘They are,’ our translator answered. Alfred’s pen scratched, while his brother and brother-in-law, both kings, seemed content to allow the young prince to question the Danes.
‘You are sons of Lothbrok?’ Alfred continued.
‘Indeed,’ the interpreter answered.
‘And you have a brother? Halfdan?’
‘Tell the bastard to shove his writing up his arse,’ Ivar snarled, ‘and to shove the quill up after it, and then the ink until he shits black feathers.’
‘My lord says we are not here to discuss family,’ the interpreter said suavely, ‘but to decide your fate.’
‘And to decide yours,’ Burghred spoke for the first time.
‘Our fate?’ Ivar retorted, making the Mercian king quail from the force of his skull-gaze, ‘our fate is to water the fields of Mercia with your blood, dung the soil with your flesh, pave it with your bones, and rid it of your filthy stink.’
The discussion carried on like that for a long time, both sides threatening, neither yielding, but it had been the English who called for the meeting and the English who wanted to make peace and so the terms were slowly hammered out. It took two days, and most of us who were listening became bored and lay on the grass in the sunlight. Both sides ate in the field, and it was during one such meal that Beocca cautiously came across to the Danish side and greeted me warily. ‘You’re getting tall, Uhtred,’ he said.
‘It is good to see you, father,’ I answered dutifully. Ragnar was watching, but without any sign of worry on his face.
‘You’re still a prisoner, then?’ Beocca asked.
‘I am,’ I lied.
He looked at my two silver arm rings which, being too big for me, rattled at my wrist. ‘A privileged prisoner,’ he said wryly.
‘They know I am an Ealdorman,’ I said.
‘Which you are, God knows, though your uncle denies it.’
‘I have heard nothing of him,’ I said truthfully.
Beocca shrugged. ‘He holds Bebbanburg. He married your father’s wife and now she is pregnant.’
‘Gytha!’ I was surprised. ‘Pregnant?’
‘They want a son,’ Beocca said, ‘and if they have one …’ he did not finish the thought, but nor did he need to. I was the Ealdorman, and Ælfric had usurped my place, yet I was still his heir and would be until he had a son. ‘The child must be born any day now,’ Beocca said, ‘but you need not worry.’ He smiled and leaned towards me so he could speak in a conspiratorial whisper. ‘I brought the parchments.’
I looked at him with utter incomprehension. ‘You brought the parchments?’
‘Your father’s will! The land-charters!’ He was shocked that I did not immediately understand what he had done. ‘I have the proof that you are the Ealdorman!’
‘I am the Ealdorman,’ I said, as if proof did not matter. ‘And always will be.’
‘Not if Ælfric has his way,’ Beocca said, ‘and if he has a son then he will want the boy to inherit.’
‘Gytha’s children always die,’ I said.
‘You must pray that every child lives,’ Beocca said crossly, ‘but you are still the Ealdorman. I owe that to your father, God rest his soul.’
‘So you abandoned my uncle?’ I asked.
‘Yes, I did!’ he said eagerly, plainly proud that he had fled Bebbanburg. ‘I am English,’ he went on, his crossed eyes blinking in the sun, ‘so I came south, Uhtred, to find Englishmen willing to fight the pagans, Englishmen able to do God’s will and I found them in Wessex. They are good men, godly men, stalwart men!’
‘Ælfric doesn’t fight the Danes?’ I asked. I knew he did not, but I wanted to hear it confirmed.
‘Your uncle wants no trouble,’ Beocca said, ‘and so the pagans thrive in Northumbria and the light of our Lord Jesus Christ grows dimmer every day.’ He put his hands together as if in prayer, his palsied left hand quivering against his ink-stained right. ‘And it is not just Ælfric who succumbs. Ricsig of Dunholm gives them feasts, Egbert sits on their throne, and for that betrayal there must be weeping in heaven. It must be stopped, Uhtred, and I went to Wessex because the king is a godly man and knows it is only with God’s help that we can defeat the pagans. I shall see if Wessex is willing to ransom you.’ That last sentence took me by surprise so that instead of looking pleased I looked puzzled, and Beocca frowned. ‘You didn’t hear me?’ he asked.
‘You want to ransom me?’
‘Of course! You are noble, Uhtred, and you must be rescued! Alfred can be generous about such things.’
‘I would like that,’ I said, knowing it was what I was supposed to say.
‘You should meet Alfred,’ he said enthusiastically. ‘You’ll enjoy that!’
I had no wish to meet Alfred, certainly not after listening to him whimper about a servant girl he had humped, but Beocca was insistent and so I went to Ragnar and asked his permission. Ragnar was amused. ‘Why does the squinty bastard want you to meet Alfred?’ he asked, looking at Beocca.
‘He wants me to be ransomed. He thinks Alfred might pay.’
‘Pay good money for you!’ Ragnar laughed. ‘Go on,’ he said carelessly, ‘it never hurts to see the enemy close up.’
Alfred was with his brother, some distance away, and Beocca talked to me as he led me towards the royal group. ‘Alfred is his brother’s chief helper,’ he explained. ‘King Æthelred is a good man, but nervous. He has sons, of course, but both are very young …’ his voice tailed away.
‘So if he dies,’ I said, ‘the eldest son becomes king?’
‘No, no!’ Beocca sounded shocked, ‘Æthelwold’s much too young. He’s no older than you!’
‘But he’s the king’s son,’ I insisted.
‘When Alfred was a small boy,’ Beocca leaned down and lowered his voice, though not its intensity, ‘his father took him to Rome. To see the Pope! And the Pope, Uhtred, invested him as the future king!’ He stared at me as if he had proved his point.
‘But he’s not the heir,’ I said, puzzled.
‘The Pope made him heir!’ Beocca hissed at me. Later, much later, I met a priest who had been in the old king’s entourage and he said Alfred had never been invested as the future king, but instead had been given some meaningless Roman honour, but Alfred, to his dying day,