'It's beautiful,' I said, testing the sword's balance and slicing it through the air.
'Got it from a Welsh chief,' Penda said, 'after I cut the bastard into joints.'
'It's a Welsh blade?' I asked, making another cut through the air, which Penda frowned at because it was clumsy.
'Of course it's not a Welsh blade, whelp!' he said, bemused. 'Their swords are as likely to shatter as cut cleanly. Their smiths are idiots. Or else their iron's no good. That's why they're always raiding. Fucking thieving sods. The mad bastard who waved this at me must have taken it from a rich Mercian. Like to think it might have belonged to King Coenwulf himself. Can't be many with a blade like it.'
I shook my head. 'I've seen Coenwulf,' I said, 'and he's a big bastard. Wouldn't use a toothpick like this. But don't worry, Penda,' I teased, handing the sword back to him, 'if the Welsh put a spear in your belly, I'll look after it for you. I'll even clean the blood off it.'
He leant forward and waved a hand before my eyes. 'You still drunk, lad? A Welshman ending Penda the Fierce?' Then he spat a gob of phlegm that narrowly missed a beetle crawling past my foot. 'There's more chance of a Norseman becoming king of bloody Wessex,' he said.
'Could happen one day,' I said, imagining Sigurd sitting at the head of King Egbert's mead bench.
'You are still drunk,' he growled.
'Maybe,' I said, 'but drunk or not, we need to get going.' I nodded towards the hall. 'Go and shake the sleep from those sorry-looking whoresons in there.' I found a louse in my beard and squashed it with my thumbnail. 'I don't think they like me,' I said.
'I know they don't like you,' Penda laughed, 'but I'll screw a flea-bitten, saggy-titted Welsh whore before I'll do your dirty work, whelp.' And with that he set off after the red-haired girl. 'You're bloody well leading them into Wales,' he called, 'so you can start by leading them out of their beds.'
I took a spear that was leaning by the open door and used the blunt end to wake the drunken farmers, traders and craftsmen I would be taking to fight the black-shielded Welsh. And I wished I were leading Norsemen.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
THE PEOPLE OF EALDRED'S FORTRESS GATHERED TO WATCH US set out. Children fought with wooden swords, enacting the victories we would have over the Welsh, whilst their folks looked on with apprehension. The men of the fyrd made a brave show of it, proudly displaying whatever weapons and helmets they possessed, though only a couple of them owned any mail and the others were dressed in toughened leather. The real warriors made no fuss at all. To them it was just another raid.
'They don't look much, but they'll fight well enough,' Penda said as I cast my eye over the war band preparing to march out. 'Wessexmen know how to fight, Raven. It's in their blood. Even the merchants.' He grinned. 'Getting their guts cut out is bad for business. So they learn how to kill.'
They did not look like fighters to me. 'The Welsh will piss their breeches when they catch sight of us,' I murmured.
'They might when they notice that eye of yours,' Penda said. 'Even the Welsh believe in the Wicked One.'
'The Wicked One?' I said.
'Aye, old Belial.' I shrugged. 'Crooked Serpent. Abaddon,' Penda added. 'Satan, lad!' he shouted.
'Crooked Serpent?' I asked.
'Aye, that's one of his names, whelp. Thought you'd know that, you being a bloody godless heathen.' I thought of Jörmungand, the Midgard-Serpent who the Norse believe encircles the earth and after whom Sigurd had named his ship's dragon figurehead. 'You got a girl somewhere, lad?' Penda asked. 'Cos God help her if you do. The poor bitch must shiver at the thought of you planting another like you in her belly.'
Just then I spotted Cynethryth. She was standing beneath the old yew tree where she had left me just hours ago, before the sun had risen to cast the hard light of doubt on our undertaking. She wore a blue mantle that ended a finger's breadth above the ground, over a pale yellow smock whose sleeves were embroidered with fine blue thread. A narrow belt emphasized her slender waist and her golden hair hung loose and uncovered. Nor was she wearing a brooch befitting her rank. Instead, a simple silver chain hung across her chest, suspended from two small round mantle pins. Her skin was pale, her mouth was a tight line and her eyes were unreadable. And by Freyja she was beautiful.
Someone said my name and I turned to meet Ealdred who wore a dark green cloak edged with white ermine fur. Beneath it he wore a fine mail brynja, its rings polished to a lustre. But the brynja was not new. It had seen battle.
'My lord,' I greeted him, checking that my sword, which had been Glum's, came cleanly from the scabbard. That morning one of Ealdred's smiths had sharpened the blade and his apprentice had dripped melted sheep's fat into the sheath's wool lining. I could still smell it.