The Last Kingdom Series Books 1 and 2: The Last Kingdom, The Pale Horseman. Bernard Cornwell

Чтение книги онлайн.

СКАЧАТЬ

      ‘A man, then. Is that your woman?’ He nodded at Brida.

      ‘My friend.’

      ‘No meat on her,’ Ealdwulf said, ‘so better as a friend.’ The smith was a big man, almost forty years old, with hands, forearms and face black-scarred from countless small burns from his forge. He walked beside my horse, his pace apparently effortless despite his advanced years. ‘So tell me about these Danes,’ he said, casting a dubious look at Ragnar’s warriors.

      ‘They’re led by Earl Ragnar,’ I said, ‘who is the man who killed my brother. He’s a good man.’

      ‘He’s the one who killed your brother?’ Ealdwulf seemed shocked.

      ‘Destiny is everything,’ I said, which might have been true but also avoided having to make a longer answer.

      ‘You like him?’

      ‘He’s like a father to me. You’ll like him.’

      ‘He’s still a Dane, though, isn’t he, lord? They might worship the right gods,’ Ealdwulf said grudgingly, ‘but I’d still like to see them gone.’

      ‘Why?’

      ‘Why?’ Ealdwulf seemed shocked that I had asked. ‘Because this isn’t their land, lord, that’s why. I want to walk without being afraid. I don’t want to touch my forelock to a man just because he has a sword. There’s one law for them and another for us.’

      ‘There’s no law for them,’ I said.

      ‘If a Dane kills a Northumbrian,’ Ealdwulf said indignantly, ‘what can a man do? There’s no wergild, no reeve to see, no lord to seek justice.’

      That was true. Wergild was the blood price of a man’s life, and every person had a wergild. A man’s was more than a woman’s, unless she was a great woman, and a warrior’s was greater than a farmer’s, but the price was always there, and a murderer could escape being put to death if the family of the murdered man would accept the wergild. The reeve was the man who enforced the law, reporting to his Ealdorman, but that whole careful system of justice had vanished since the Danes had come. There was no law now except what the Danes said it was, and that was what they wanted it to be, and I knew that I revelled in that chaos, but then I was privileged. I was Ragnar’s man, and Ragnar protected me, but without Ragnar I would be no better than an outlaw or a slave.

      ‘Your uncle doesn’t protest,’ Ealdwulf went on, ‘but Beocca did. You remember him? Red-haired priest with a shrivelled hand and crossed eyes?’

      ‘I met him last year,’ I said.

      ‘You did? Where?’

      ‘He was with Alfred of Wessex.’

      ‘Wessex!’ Ealdwulf said, surprised. ‘Long way to go. But he was a good man, Beocca, despite being a priest. He ran off because he couldn’t stand the Danes. Your uncle was furious. Said Beocca deserved to be killed.’

      Doubtless, I thought, because Beocca had taken the parchments that proved me to be the rightful Ealdorman. ‘My uncle wanted me killed too,’ I said, ‘and I never thanked you for attacking Weland.’

      ‘Your uncle was going to give me to the Danes for that,’ he said, ‘only no Dane complained, so he did nothing.’

      ‘You’re with the Danes now,’ I said, ‘and you’d better get used to it.’

      Ealdwulf thought about that for a moment. ‘Why not go to Wessex?’ he asked.

      ‘Because the West Saxons want to turn me into a priest,’ I said, ‘and I want to be a warrior.’

      ‘Go to Mercia then,’ Ealdwulf suggested.

      ‘That’s ruled by the Danes.’

      ‘But your uncle lives there.’

      ‘My uncle?’

      ‘Your mother’s brother!’ He was astonished that I did not know my own family. ‘He’s Ealdorman Æthelwulf, if he still lives.’

      ‘My father never talked about my mother,’ I said.

      ‘Because he loved her. She was a beauty, your mother, a piece of gold, and she died giving birth to you.’

      ‘Æthelwulf,’ I said.

      ‘If he lives.’

      But why go to Æthelwulf when I had Ragnar? Æthelwulf was family, of course, but I had never met him and I doubted he even remembered my existence, and I had no desire to find him, and even less desire to learn my letters in Wessex, so I would stay with Ragnar. I said as much to Ealdwulf. ‘He’s teaching me to fight,’ I said.

      ‘Learn from the best, eh?’ Ealdwulf said grudgingly. ‘That’s how you become a good smith. Learn from the best.’

      Ealdwulf was a good smith and, despite himself, he came to like Ragnar for Ragnar was generous and he appreciated good workmanship. A smithy was added onto our home near Synningthwait and Ragnar paid good silver for a forge, an anvil, and for the great hammers, tongs and files that Ealdwulf needed. It was late winter before all was ready, and then ore was purchased from Eoferwic and our valley echoed to the clang of iron on iron, and even on the coldest days the smithy was warm and men gathered there to exchange stories or to tell riddles. Ealdwulf was a great man for riddles and I would translate for him as he baffled Ragnar’s Danes. Most of his riddles were about men and women and what they did together and those were easy enough to guess, but I liked the complicated ones. My father and mother gave me up for dead, one riddle began, then a loyal kinswoman wrapped and protected me, and I killed all her children, but she still loved me and fed me until I rose above the dwelling houses of men and so left her. I could not guess that one, nor could any of the Danes, and Ealdwulf refused to give me the answer even when I begged him and it was only when I told the riddle to Brida that I learned the solution. ‘A cuckoo, of course,’ she said instantly. She was right, of course.

      By spring the forge needed to be larger, and all that summer Ealdwulf made metal for swords, spears, axes and spades. I asked him once if he minded working for the Danes and he just shrugged. ‘I worked for them in Bebbanburg,’ he said, ‘because your uncle does their bidding.’

      ‘But there are no Danes in Bebbanburg?’

      ‘None,’ he admitted, ‘but they visit and are made welcome. Your uncle pays them tribute.’ He stopped suddenly, interrupted by a shout of what I thought was pure rage.

      I ran out of the smithy to see Ragnar standing in front of the house while, approaching up the track, was a crowd of men led by a mounted warrior. And such a warrior. He had a mail coat, a fine helmet hanging from the saddle, a bright-painted shield, a long sword and arms thick with rings. He was a young man with long fair hair and a thick gold beard, and he roared back at Ragnar like a rutting stag, then Ragnar ran towards him and I half thought the young man would draw the sword and kick at his horse, but instead he dismounted and ran uphill and, when the two met, they embraced and thumped each other’s backs and Ragnar, when he turned towards us, had a smile that would have lit the darkest crypt of hell. ‘My son!’ he shouted up at me, СКАЧАТЬ