As Father Beocca handed me some bread, I looked out over the field of grass, tall enough to brush against my chest. The man who rode at the head of the group stood with his back to us, staring at the rising sun. The hilt of his sword, an amber stone, caught the light and gleamed brilliantly.
"That is Uhtred, the man who saved you," Father Beocca said. "We couldn't have got you without him."
That name sounded familiar. Then I remembered the new slaves, both Saxon and Dane, telling the story of a man who charged a shield wall alone and made it crumble.
"Is that Uhtred of Wessex?" I asked, surprise creeping into my voice. He looked more like a Dane than a Saxon, his long hair tied in a bun, with loose strands falling across his face. "I thought he'd be taller."
He could be considered taller than most men, but I wasn't most men. Few even stood eye to eye with me; I'd always been the taller of my age, just like my father before me.
Father Beocca chuckled, the sound low and warm. "Yes, that is him. Don't underestimate him he's the finest warrior I have ever seen."
I turned my head and looked at him for a moment, thinking that if I wanted to win the support of the jarls, I would have to learn to fight like him. I could fight, but I couldn't honestly say I was battle-tested. My size offered many advantages, but against real sword skill it wouldn't count for much.
I started to walk toward him. He was washing his face, his back turned. "Hey," I said, "the priest said I should be thanking you for my freedom."
He turned, arms crossed, and examined me up and down.
"I did not raise the ransom," Uhtred said plainly.
"The ransom was not paid," I replied. "It will go back to the Church. And even if it had been paid, we both know they wouldn't have let me go."
Uhtred chuckled at that, then he turned back to the other riders. "The lepers should be paid. We would all have been dead without them."
"I will see they are paid. Here, take this." I handed him the wrapped bread.
He smiled. "A king brings me food," Uhtred said, joking.
"Did Alfred not feed you? You're one of his greatest warriors," I said.
Uhtred looked at me. "How do you know of Alfred?" he asked, surprise in his eyes.
"Every Dane in the land knows him," I replied, "how he beat the Great Army at the Battle of Edington. And you broke a shield wall. You should pay a skald to write a song about it."
Uhtred said, "I did that in Mercia. I was drunk, and the song was tuneless." We both laughed at that.
As the laughter died, my tone grew serious. "I am indebted. I give you my oath as king. You will be rewarded."
The word king still felt strange on my tongue. It did not feel real. I would have to grow into it. There could be no doubt.
Uhtred returned my seriousness. "Then. You owe me."
"I do," I said, and I meant it. He would be useful against Saxon lords and Danish jarls. If standing with me brought him land or wealth, he would ride and I would give it to him. Yet if he ever stood in the way of my ambitions, I would not hesitate to betray him.
He drew a breath, eyes narrowing. "Is it your intention to raise an army?"
I turned and met his gaze. "Yes. I am my father's bastard. I have no rightful claim. There will be resistance. Those who refuse to bow must be made examples." My tone was heavy. "Join me."
Uhtred studied me for a long moment before speaking. "I'll ride with you only if you march north against Kjartan, and against the man who stole my home. Bebbanburg."
I frowned. "Bebbanburg?"
He looked past me, toward the distant fields. "A fortress on the northern coast. My birthright." His voice was quiet, but there was a hunger behind the last words.
I said nothing for a moment. I'd heard of Bebbanburg; every man in the north had. A fortress on the edge of a mountain, built on rock and sea. I knew little else. But it meant everything to him. I could see it in his eyes, the way his voice hardened when he spoke its name.
That was his price. And that could be used.
"You'll have it back," I said finally, watching him. "Help me take the north, and Bebbanburg will be yours."
He studied me in silence. Then, slowly, he nodded. "Then you have a coronation to get to, Lord."
It took us only an hour to reach Carlisle. As we approached the monastery, the village surrounding it began to stir. People rushed from their huts and fields to see who rode in. I led in the pack, and when they saw me, voices rose: "The king! The king!"
Some fell to their knees, crossing themselves; others came forward, reaching for my hand.
I was unfamiliar with the nailed God. It felt strange seeing them fall to their knees before me. But if their God wanted me king, then I will rule over these people, and let them pray to their God.
As I reached the entrance of the monastery, it stood behind a large wooden gate, barricaded by sturdy timber walls that encircled the grounds.
The rough stone of the main building was weathered by rain carried in from the nearby sea. A low, sloping roof of thatch and timber covered the hall, with narrow arched windows that let in only thin shafts of light. At the very top of the roof, a small wooden bell tower stood, its rope frayed from years of use.
The smell of bread and ale drifted faintly outside. The monastery was functional rather than grand, sturdy, designed to shelter monks and travelers alike.
A group of people had gathered in front of the building. My sister, Gisela, was one of them. She was slender, her hair a pale chestnut, long and often tangled, falling in waves past her shoulders. Her eyes were a sharp green, and she looked at me with joy.
The rest were priests. The one at the very front looked well over forty. His skin was weathered like old parchment, his nose long and straight, slightly hooked at the tip, and his lips thin. A fringe of white hair framed his bald crown as he stepped forward, taking the lead of the group.
"Lord King, it is I to whom the blessed St. Cuthbert appeared in a dream," he said, his voice loud and clear.
People from all around the village flooded through the wooden gate. They looked at me in awe; there was barely space to ride. I hopped down from my horse as Uhtred and Father Beocca flanked me on both sides.
"He showed me your face, Lord… and he said, 'King,'" he said, the last word ringing out in a grand, reverent tone.
I was walking toward him, his face barely reaching my eyes. I nodded slowly. "Then Saint Cuthbert has spoken. Who am I to deny the will of a holy man's dream?" I said, loud enough for the crowd to hear.
Then, softer, I leaned down a little. "Your vision will be remembered, Father. You have served both God and me." Abbot Eadred's eyes widened as he looked up into mine.
Before he could speak, I turned to my sister. She ran to me and threw her arms around me. "You're really here," she said, her voice bright with joy. "I thought I would never see you again."
I hugged her back with one arm, a small smile on my lips. "All because of you, little sister. You'll have to tell me how you escaped."
I looked toward Uhtred. "Come, meet my sister," I said, waving him over as he walked toward us.
He approached; his gaze flicked to Gisela. Uhtred's lips curved into a faint, almost imperceptible smirk. "I am Uhtred of Bebbanburg," he said, his voice edged with slight amusement.
I turned slightly toward my sister. "He joined me in our attempt to pacify the north," I said, letting my words carry for those nearby to hear. "A man who fought in the great battle of Edington, with King Alfred."
A low murmur rippled through the crowd. The Battle of Edington carried weight even here; tales of that battle had spread like fire across the Saxon kingdoms.
It was proof that the Danes could be beaten. Word had reached even Jorvik, where the Saxons rose against Haesten once the brothers had gone across the sea, leaving the city ripe for the taking.
Abbot Eadred stepped forward, raising a hand. "Lord King," he said, his voice carrying clearly over the crowd. "Bring forth the sword."
All eyes turned as two monks approached, carefully rolling out a wooden chest bound with iron. With a low scrape, the lid was lifted away. The scabbard was of deep crimson leather. Golden fittings bound it at the throat and tip; worked with fine, deliberate craft, tiny etchings of coiled beasts and runes ran along the edges.
When the monks laid it before Abbot Eadred, with careful hands he slightly bowed and, with two hands on it, offered it up to me.
I pulled it from its scabbard. The blade sang softly as it was drawn a long, straight silver edge, narrow but strong, the fuller running down its length like a shadow of motion. Its polish mirrored the sky, cold and pale. The hilt was bound in red leather to match the scabbard. The crossguard was ornate, curving slightly toward the blade.
Abbot Eadred's voice, heavy with reverence, rang out. "This is the Sword of Cumbraland. By tradition, a king's right to command and unite, Lord."
Iturned the blade, testing its weight. It was surprisingly light. Lighter than any sword I had held before. I gave it a slow swing to the side, and it answered with a soft whisper through the air, a sound clean and sharp. So perfectly balanced, it felt less like I wielded it and more as if it moved with me.
Abbot Eadred's voice rang out over the crowd, loud and full of conviction. "The king that was promised is here! The son of the great warrior Hardacnut has returned!"
Eadred raised his hands high. "Behold the king who shall lead us all, Saxon and Dane alike, under one crown!"
Then, lowering his voice, he stepped closer and bowed deeply before me. "You shall be crowned this very day, my king."
He turned away, leading me inside the monastery. I followed, shoulders squared, feeling how natural it was to assume the role they expected. Power was counted in men and in steel, my father had drilled that into me. Let the three spinners, or even God, write what they would it mattered little. I would seize what was mine, or die trying.