The Burning Land by Bernard Cornwell Page A

who had intended it as an insult, but once I had learned its meaning I liked it. My gods are capricious.
    “How can you serve a capricious god?” Alfred asked.
    “I don’t.”
    “But you said…”
    “They are capricious,” I interrupted him, “but that’s their pleasure. My task is not to serve them, but to amuse them, and if I do then they will reward me in the life to come.”
    “Amuse them?” He sounded shocked.
    “Why not?” I demanded. “We have cats, dogs, and falcons for our pleasure, the gods made us for the same reason. Why did your god make you?”
    “To be His servant,” he said firmly. “If I’m God’s cat then I must catch the devil’s mice. That is duty, Lord Uhtred, duty.”
    “While my duty,” I said, “is to catch Harald and slice his head off. That, I think, will amuse my gods.”
    “Your gods are cruel,” he said, then shuddered.
    “Men are cruel,” I said, “and the gods made us like themselves, and some of the gods are kind, some are cruel. So are we. If it amuses the gods then Harald will slice my head off.” I touched the hammer amulet.
    Alfred grimaced. “God made you his instrument, and I do not know why he chose you, a pagan, but so he did and you have served me well.”
    He had spoken fervently, surprising me, and I bowed my head in acknowledgment. “Thank you, lord.”
    “And now I wish you to serve my son,” he added.
    I should have known that was coming, but somehow the request took me by surprise. I was silent a moment as I tried to think what to say. “I agreed to serve you, lord,” I said finally, “and so I have, but I have my own battles to fight.”
    “Bebbanburg,” he said sourly.
    “Is mine,” I said firmly, “and before I die I wish to see my banner flying over its gate and my son strong enough to defend it.”
    He gazed at the glow of the enemy fires. I was noticing how scattered those fires were, which told me Harald had not yet concentrated his army. It would take time to pull those men together from across the ravaged countryside, which meant, I thought, that the battle would not be fought tomorrow, but the next day. “Bebbanburg,” Alfred said, “is an island of the English in a sea of Danes.”
    “True, lord,” I said, noting how he used the word “English.” It embraced all the tribes who had come across the sea, whether they were Saxon, Angle, or Jute, and it spoke of Alfred’s ambition, that he now made explicit.
    “The best way to keep Bebbanburg safe,” he said, “is to surround it with more English land.”
    “Drive the Danes from Northumbria?” I asked.
    “If it is God’s will,” he said, “then I will wish my son to do that great deed.” He turned to me, and for a moment he was not a king, but a father. “Help him, Lord Uhtred,” he said pleadingly. “You are my dux bellorum , my lord of battles, and men know they will win when you lead them. Scour the enemy from England, and so take your fortress back and make my son safe on his God-given throne.”
    He had not flattered me, he had spoken the truth. I was the warlord of Wessex and I was proud of that reputation. I went into battle glittering with gold, silver, and pride, and I should have known that the gods would resent that.
    “I want you,” Alfred spoke softly but firmly, “to give my son your oath.”
    I cursed inwardly, but spoke respectfully. “What oath, lord?”
    “I wish you to serve Edward as you have served me.”
    And thus Alfred would tie me to Wessex, to Christian Wessex that lay so far from my northern home. I had spent my first ten years in Bebbanburg, that great rock-fastness on the northern sea, and when I had first ridden to war the fortress had been left in the care of my uncle, who had stolen it from me.
    “I will swear an oath to you, lord,” I said, “and to no one else.”
    “I already have your oath,” he said harshly.
    “And I will keep it,” I said.
    “And when I’m dead,” he asked bitterly, “what then?”
    “Then,