Enjoy a look at one of the opening scenes from Bernard Cornwell’s new novel, War Lord! – the magnificent finale to the Last Kingdom series.
He is the Lord of Bebbanburg. He is a King’s warrior who had helped the King achieve the throne. He is a man of proud independence, now content to be at home in his own lands.
But fate decrees otherwise …
Bernard Cornwell
There was hardly a breath of wind, the sea was lazy, its small waves collapsing exhausted on Bebbanburg’s long beach. The ship approaching from the south, its prow crested with a cross, left a widening ripple that was touched with glittering gold by the early morning sun. She was being rowed, her oars rising and falling in a slow, weary rhythm.
‘Poor bastards must have been rowing all night,’ Berg said. He commanded the morning’s guards posted on Bebbanburg’s ramparts.
‘Forty oars,’ I said, more to make conversation than to tell Berg what he could plainly see for himself.
‘And coming here.’ ‘From where, though?’ Berg shrugged. ‘What’s happening today?’ he asked. It was my turn to shrug. What would happen was what always happened. Cauldrons would be lit to boil clothes clean, salt would evaporate in the pans north of the fortress, men would practice with shields, swords and spears, horses exercised, fish would be smoked, water drawn from the deep wells, and ale brewed in the fortress kitchens. ‘I plan to do nothing,’ I said, ‘but you can take two men and remind Olaf Einerson that he owes me rent. A lot of rent.’
‘His wife’s ill, lord.’ ‘He said that last winter.’ ‘And he lost half his flock to Scotsmen.’ ‘Or he sold them,’ I said sourly. ‘No one else complained of Scottish raiders this spring.’ Olaf Einerson had inherited his tenancy from his father who had never failed to deliver fleeces or silver as rent. Olaf, the son, was a big and capable man whose ambitions, it seemed to me, went beyond raising hardy sheep on the high hills. ‘On second thoughts,’ I said, ‘take fifteen men. I don’t trust him.’
The ship was close enough now that I could see three men sitting just forward of the stern platform. One was a priest, or at least he was wearing a long black robe and it was he who stood and waved up at our ramparts. I did not wave back. ‘Whoever they are,’ I told Berg, ‘bring them to the hall. They can watch me drink ale. And wait before you smack some sense into Olaf.’
‘Wait, lord?’ ‘Let’s see what news they’re bringing first,’ I said, nodding at the ship that was now turning towards the narrow entrance of Bebbanburg’s harbour. The ship carried no cargo that I could see, and her oarsmen looked bone weary, suggesting that she brought urgent news.
‘Æthelstan,’ I guessed.
‘Æthelstan?’ Berg asked. ‘She’s not a Northumbrian ship, is she?’ I asked. No Northumbrian ship carried a cross on the prow. ‘And who uses priests to carry messages?’
‘King Æthelstan.’ I watched the ship turn into the entrance channel, then led Berg off the ramparts. ‘Look after his oarsmen. Send them food and ale, and bring the damn priest to the hall.’
I climbed to the hall where two servants were attacking cobwebs with long willow switches tied with bundles of feathers. Benedetta was watching to make sure every last spider was driven from the fortress. ‘We have visitors,’ I said, ‘so your war against spiders must wait.’
‘I am not at war,’ she insisted, ‘I like spiders. But not in my home. Who are the visitors?’ ‘I’m guessing they’re messengers from Æthelstan.’ ‘Then we must greet them properly!’ She clapped her hands and ordered benches to be brought. ‘And bring the throne from the platform,’ she commanded.
‘It’s not a throne,’ I said, ‘just a fancy bench.’ ‘Ouff!’ she said. It was a noise Benedetta made whenever I exasperated her. It made me smile, which only irritated her more. ‘It is a throne,’ she insisted, ‘and you are king of Bebbanburg.’
‘Lord,’ I corrected her. ‘You are as much a king as that fool Guthfrith,’ she replied, making the sign to ward off evil, ‘or Owain, or anyone else.’ It was an old argument and I let it drop.
‘And have the girls bring ale,’ I said, ‘and some food. Preferably not stale.’ ‘And you should wear the dark robe. I fetch it.’ Benedetta was from Italy, snatched as a child from her home by slavers, then traded across Christendom until she had reached Wessex. I had freed her and now she was the Lady of Bebbanburg, though not my wife. ‘My grandmother,’ she had told me more than once, and always making the sign of the cross as she spoke, ‘told me I should never marry. I would be cursed! I have been cursed enough in life. Now I am happy! Why should I risk a grandmother’s curse? My grandmother was never wrong!’
I grumpily allowed her to drape the expensive black robe over my shoulders, refused to wear the bronze-gilt circlet that had belonged to my father, and then, with Benedetta beside me, I waited for the priest.
And it was an old friend who came from the sunlight into the dusty shadows of Bebbanburg’s great hall. It was Father Oda, now bishop of Rammesburi, who walked tall and elegant, his long black robe hemmed with dark red cloth. He was escorted by a pair of West Saxon warriors who politely gave my steward their swords before following Oda towards me.
‘Anyone would think,’ the bishop said as he came closer, ‘that you were a king!’ ‘He is,’ Benedetta insisted. ‘And anyone would think,’ I said, ‘that you were a bishop.’ He smiled. ‘By the grace of God, Lord Uhtred, I am.’ ‘By the grace of Æthelstan,’ I said, then stood and greeted him with an embrace. ‘Do I congratulate you?’
‘If you like. I think I am the first Dane to be a bishop in Englaland.’ ‘Is that what you call it now?’ ‘It’s easier than saying I am the first Danish bishop in Wessex, Mercia and East Anglia.’ He bowed to Benedetta. ‘It is good to see you again, my lady.’
‘And to see you, my lord bishop.’
‘Ah! So rumour is wrong! Courtesy does live in Bebbanburg!’ He grinned at me, pleased with his jest and I smiled back. Oda, Bishop of Rammesburi! The only surprising thing about that appointment was that Oda was a Dane, son of pagan immigrants who had invaded East Anglia in the service of Ubba, whom I had killed. Now a Danish son of pagan parents was a bishop in Saxon Englaland. Not that he did not deserve it. Oda was a subtle, clever man who, as far as I knew, was as honest as the day is long.
There was a pause because Finan had seen Oda arrive and now came to greet him. Oda had been with us when we defended Lundene’s Crepelgate, a fight that had put Æthelstan on the throne. I might be no Christian and no lover of Christianity, but it is hard to dislike a man who has shared a desperate battle at your side. ‘Ah, wine!’ Oda greeted a servant, then turned to Benedetta, ‘no doubt blessed by the Italian sun?’
‘More likely pissed in by Frankish peasants,’ I said. ‘His charms don’t grow less, do they, my lady?’ Oda said, sitting. Then he looked at me and touched the heavy gold cross hanging at his breast. ‘I bring news, Lord Uhtred.’ His tone was suddenly wary.
‘I supposed as much.’ ‘Which you won’t like.’ Oda kept his eyes on me. ‘Which I won’t like,’ I echoed, and waited. ‘King Æthelstan,’ he said calmly, still looking at me, ‘is in Northumbria. He entered Eoferwic three days ago.’ He paused, as if expecting me to protest, but I said nothing. ‘And King Guthfrith,’ Oda went on, ‘misunderstood our coming and has fled.’
‘Misunderstood,’ I said. ‘Indeed.’ ‘And he fled from you and Æthelstan? Just the two of you?’ ‘Of course not,’ Oda said, still calm. ‘We were escorted by over two thousand men.’ I am old, I was tired, I had fought enough, I wanted to stay at Bebbanburg, I wanted to hear the long sea break on the beach and the wind sigh around the hall’s gable. I knew I had few years left, but the gods had been kind. My son was a man and would inherit wide lands, I could still ride and hunt, and I had Benedetta. True she had a temper like a weasel on heat, but she was loving and loyal, had a brightness that lit Bebbanburg’s grey skies and I loved her.
‘Two thousand men,’ I said flatly, ‘yet still he needs me?’ ‘He requests your help, lord, yes.’ ‘He can’t manage the invasion on his own?’ I was getting angrier. ‘It’s not an invasion, lord,’ Oda said calmly, ‘just a royal visitation. A courtesy between kings.’
He could call it what he liked, but it was still an invasion. And I was angry.
–Extracted from War Lord by Bernard Cornwell (HarperCollins Australia), out now.
Copyright © Bernard Cornwell 2020
This book is part of Booktoberfest, the festival of new books!
War Lord
The Last Kingdom: Book 3
The epic conclusion to the globally bestselling historical series, coming October 2020.
After years fighting to reclaim his rightful home, Uhtred of Bebbanburg has returned to Northumbria. With his loyal band of warriors and a new woman by his side, his household is secure – yet Uhtred is far from safe. Beyond the walls of his impregnable fortress, a battle for power rages. To the south, King Æthelstan has unified the three kingdoms of Wessex, Mercia and East Anglia – and now eyes a bigger prize...
Best of 2017: Historical Fiction
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